Goldeneye

There was nothing to be seen
as the torch light scratched
at the darkness. I was rubbing
away the night as best I could.
The trees had melted and an owl,
like a squeaky hinge, called into
the black pit. I walked with the world
being felt.

Then in the distance a glow
like a cigarette in the hand of a walker.
My torch had picked it up, found
it in the well of night. It watched me
get closer. But then moved away.
My torch wanted to expose,
but the eye soaked deeper into the skin,
leaving me wonder, wander, sigh.

By Gareth Culshaw

golden eyes of eagle owl


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Close-up photo of Eagle Owl by Fernando Cortes De Pablo

Whirlwind

I saw it before it saw me.
Leaves trickled at first
then they were put in a vacuum

as a whirlwind passed along.
I sat still against the oak
watching it get closer.

Leaves tried to run in vain
but were picked up, thrown.
Only a second or two on passing

refreshing the path of stillness.
After it went I watched other leaves
scatter down the track

as if in fear of more corkscrewing.
I wondered if it was the air
unravelling a knot…

By Gareth Culshaw

wind whirling through trees and grass


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Photo of wind in the trees by nightlyviolet

Crow Castle

The sun wanted to come in
but autumn was holding it back.
I watched leaves fly like broken
wings from dead birds. The wind
held an invisible trawler that
netted up the litter of trees.
I was in the in-between,
wandering from place to place.
A peregrine barreled past, undoing
the sky like a zip. And when I
reached the top a wind came
from the outside. Throwing itself
into my body as if all the words I
had ever spoken were being erased.
When I got back home I noticed
my words reached further than ever before.

By Gareth Culshaw

man walking in high field


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Photos by Foryouinf Photography

Another Field Gone

When the pigeons lifted
and their wings flapped
like pages flicked in a book,

the field became our own again.
Seed hung on the tips of summer
and tractors waited in heaviness.

Another June to August
had left us. The barbecue’s we
have yet to cook. Campsites

known but never seen, stars
wasted in moonlit skies, owl
hoots locked out by a door.

Then the tractors came to plough
away the sun growth.
We turned to thicker curtains,

logs on the fire, coal, coal,
and blackened fingers.
Another year older for the next
summer. And bones thicker

with work, skin creased with rain.
Wishing our lives would be lived
again.

By Gareth Culshaw

farmer with children on tractor


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Photo by William Perugini

The Old Building Made Of Wood

I am walking into a wood
that is like an old building, crumbling
to the ground. Light spears
through where it’s not meant to.
Wind pinches the air, shaking
the summer out of the leaves
A kestrel lingers on the edge
with its ghost flapping wings.
I move with each press of foot,
feeling the hard cobbled earth
of roots and limbs. A buzzard
is pushed out of the trees,
birds separate themselves
from the wood. I become a lone
figure, walking with feet
that gain weight by losing light
each passing year.

By Gareth Culshaw

hiking rocky path through deep forest


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Photo by Jaromír Chalabala