Hill Myth 

Hill Myth 2



The grass rippled 
as a million moles scurried 
around under it. Then my lawn undulated; 
                                      rude movements 

as the moon tugged at its sward modesty. Turf 

began to roll and break on the herbaceous border. It sprayed 
                                        the vulva-leaved beech hedge with  

fine, moist soil. The moles threatened 
           little whiskery peaks with their 
                      comicly pointed snouts. 

My desire 
for the ancient intuitions, locked 
up in my chemical chains, churned 
in me a demented cultivation; suddenly erupted 
                                    in my garden as breasts 

made of mud. 

What was my lawn was now 
two naked mounds of ground 
with cobble-nipples from which trickled 
                  luminous tributaries of lava: 

red-hot threads of earth-colostrum cracked 
                                  my patio and burned 

the bottom of my home’s plastic drain pipes. Then a whole 
                                figure of mud, roots, and humus rose. 
                                             She screamed purple murder. 

A strapping lass, she pushed 
her branch-thick fingers under 
the soil-shiny surface-tension of my garden; she pulled 
                      out a partner made of mud, just like her. 

His hair was blind-white roots matted 
on his potato-scented head and draped 
around the base of his trunk-stiff cellulose sex. 
His xylem-veined member twitched 
as gusts of carbon, hyrdrogen, oygen, and nitrogen 
                   conducted it. Her open stoma weeped 

a fine cord of sleek silver; she flashed 
four heats of the sun with her electric glare. 

They copulated in my garden. 

Screened from my neighbours, 
by the vulva-leaved beech hedge, they screamed 
                               the raw noise of burned air. 

His mica-eyed tadpoles swam 
from the split in his mushroom glans; billions threshed 
                       with their double-helixed tails to chase 

her single meteor. 

The moles witnessed all this 
despite being blind. The turf 

lapped the herbs 
at the border of my domain; the moon 
      tugged wet and knotted emotions. 

She screamed purple birth – a creak 
                    like a tree as it’s felled. 

And a mountain somehow slid 
through her hollow-trunk vagina to squeeze 
             past her root-matted labia and gasp 

its first air as a crackle of glacier. 

All this in my garden. The mountain began 
to grow past the top of the vulva-leaved beech hedge. 

The neighbours 
having noticed by now dialled 
                            999. Whilst 

the million moles giggled victory. 





 Mark Goodwin
Illustration Nick Victor



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2 Responses to Hill Myth 

    1. ILL YTH

      rippled-scurried-undulated movements

      turf sprayed with ‘THREATENED’

      their snouts’ desire locked
      churned erupted breasts

      mud now ground trickled lava
      cracked burned whole rose

      murder pushed under pulled her
      matted draped sex twitched nitrogen

      weeped flashed glare

      garden neighbours screamed air
      swam threshed chase

      meteor this turf

      herbs’ moon emotions creak
      felled slid-squeeze gasp

      glacier began hedge

      neighbours dialled victory


      grass million under moon roll
      soil whiskery

      comicly desire ancient
      chemical-demented mud

      lawn mounds nipples’ luminous earth
      patio-home’s figure

      she she thick shiny out

      blind scented base
      veined carbon conducted

      sleek sun in
      my leaved raw tadpoles

      split with single moles
      being herbs’ border tugged

      purple tree somehow hollow
      root crackle my past

      neighbours noticed 999

      Comment by Mark Goodwin on 3 September, 2015 at 10:30 am
    2. myth movements
      threatened locked breasts

      lava rose her nitrogen glare
      air-chase-turf-creak-gasp-hedge victory roll

      whiskery ancient mud
      earth figure out

      base conducted in tadpoles
      moles tugged hollow past 999

      Comment by Mark Goodwin on 3 September, 2015 at 10:34 am

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