There’s a wall, twelve feet from our house.
It’s the boundary wall that keeps the estate
from spilling into local hands.
The wall fills the living room window,
like a bully’s palm in the face of a child.
To see beyond the stone
you have to go to the bedroom.
Mole hills wart the fields, and sheep
gather in their own undecidedness.
Six larch trees bottle brush the sky.
I feel like my world has been belted up,
and the tightness is killing my legs.
There’s a place I once knew on the other
side, my footsteps are there in the woods.
All I can do is listen to the wind
that carries my lost voice, and hope
it falls back into my mouth.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He has his first collection out in April 2018 by FutureCycle Press. He hopes to achieve much more with the pen.