matt martin

rest at the pond
watch your future appear

Allen Fisher, Black Ponds

impoverished and mentally unwell      you retreat to a cabin among the welsh mountains      the landscape is stunning but your hut sits at the base of a vale whose scree slopes blot out sunlight      an eight mile walk to the grocer’s and pub in the nearest village      only one future remains to you and its value is fast approaching zero      on a starless winter night you are summoned      you wade through drifts up to a raised peat bog in the hills      snow here is punctuated by black ponds left where medieval peasants dug sods out      flakes fall soft and frangible as your bone marrow     which is the same temperature      harry fainlight has been here before you      questing to sever himself from the spider’s web of capital      he reached a place where even now you’d struggle to find mobile phone coverage      were your device not already an uncharged brick      illumination is so scant that you might already be under a dark pool’s surface    you lose track of the boundary between the freezing bog and your frozen blood      you scan the unseen rim of hills for any light sources brighter than the dim violet of snow settling      but find none      the lamp in the fane has gone out