It begins almost motherly,
a return to the warmth of the womb,
a central point on the journey to oblivion,
time travel is a lie an uncaring trick of time.
Slowly through rheumatic eyes the present,
fades away, sound, cold, future,
all these are frozen,
The first signs of possibility,
appear bubbles in the stream,
each a window, a doorway,
into the past,
Here a child did not fall out of bed,
their sudden awakening saving the lives
of those dwelling within.
The Time Machine is a lie.
Rather than showing the past,
each portal leads to a distortion,
a prison for the unwary,
Here he went to university;
sought his dream as an artist,
there is a tightness now,
sudden desire to breathe,
The Time Machine will not allow it.
The traveller realizes,
the trap they are caught in,
Focused so tightly on the
journey they did not notice the;
failing strength in limbs,
there is an urgency now,
a burning now time seeks,
to consume them.
A sound, a voice, a mothers distant
cry, the present has almost faded to black,
Hairy thews pluck the traveller from,
the machine breathe life back into;
fragile body too weak for time travel,
too weak to be left unsupervised,
in the local pool the boy opens his
eyes and cries. `
The Wilding Path
I see the hidden spheres which over lap our own,
not all of the time but there are moments,
of crystal clarity/
in the rain/
There are places where the doors are open ,
the tiniest whisper of a forgotten past,
previously/ I stood near one,
The whispering wood to many this overgrown,
tree choked with vines is a part of nature,
I have seen beneath the veil/ to a stone wall
An old mill my hands traced the stone work,
in the deepest shadows where man isn't welcome,
The silence was deafening/
A hard working miller busy grinding
corn as children played in the waterhole,
women busy drying clothes laughing at their antics.
I stepped back into the warmth of the day
the chill seeping from my bones,
I look down and see the waterhole now filled with -
sediment natures cruel touch has scoured it away
slowly overgrown as the angry waters surged past,
I walked onwards reflecting/
My path crumbles before me/
seemingly the ground smashed by an angry god
huge rents make it difficult
I came to a tributary a place where I once waited for seven hours.
lost as a child frightened tears and snot smeared my face in the dark/
I waded across the stream passed the lying rocks.
Skipping across bleached stones the bones of mountains past,
I slowly approach the coldest of places,
The chill settling in I can feel your uncaring gaze/
trapped in the stones which formed a perfect circle around you.
for a price.
Did my mind play tricks?
did you really move to
wood rubbing against wood/
the ivy flowed like a/
mane of unkempt hair down your back.
A single ray of sunlight breaks the silence/
soared out the moment passed,
I see you for what you are a tree twisted by a quirk of fate,
to a child's eye/
a feminine form/
I turn and walk away from the cackling tree,
I hear a peal of feminine laughter and run home
away from that accursed tree.
Your dark birth has long been prophesied,
My dark parasite needed yet twisted
Far beyond your original purpose.
You have shared this flesh since infancy,
Your dark touch has left its mark,
Ravaged my body stained my soul.
Sadly your parasitic presence is
Needed, serves a primary function,
A function carried out grudgingly.
That touch a constant reminder,
Flares, the rage cripples,
Draws blood, steals breath.
Entropy approaches our parting
Inevitable I wait for that day:
Torn, your functionality important.
A caged beast you punish:
Your host lashes out blindly,
Rage and pain all consuming.
I am consumed, clutch
Just below the ribcage,
God but there are days
I find myself asking,
Why life's parasite? Why birth?
Amos Greig is a recent graduate from Queen's where he studied English and Ancient History. He has studied at the John Hewitt Summer School in 2001 and James Simmons Summer House. Amos has designed covers for Lapwing Publications, designed their logo , provided portraits for James Simmons, Desmond O'Grady, Sabine Wichert, Padraic Faicc and created children's murals. Amos has had work published in Poetry in Motion's The Poet's place, Speech Therapy, Papergirl Belfast and Solstice Poetry. He is currently editor of a literary and arts magazine called A New Ulster. His first book of poetry called Lord's of the hill is with a publisher pending publication.