by Helen Gwyn Jones
The Woodcutter’s Brother
My uncle used to watch eight-foot wide dragonflies
strap camera bombs to the chests of timid pigeons.
The last thing he says he saw before he died was his own
upturned face illuminated by one thousand silver flashes.
He says pigeons are the secret messengers of God
although he does not believe in Them as a person.
Every morning he checks beneath the surface of the beck
to see if he has been reincarnated as the Dracula of ducks.
He says he hasn’t anything against birds necessarily, but what
use are wings if you cannot convince your heart to become angel.
He has to swallow 600 mg of the devil’s tongue
quilted inside a duvet of Quetiapine every night.
He says his devil tastes of stale farts,
otters teeth, and sarsaparilla fizzy sweets.
When he visits the shop, he tells anyone
who will listen that they are already ghosts.
When he was a bairn, someone’s older brother
stole a box of fireworks and detonated them under
the metal horse and a piece of my uncle’s brain
has been hiding in another universe ever since.
He likes licking the wood of old windowsills after it rains.
Mimes psalms to the apple tree that lives behind next door’s car.
On bonfire nights, he hides in the outhouse
with his spider friends and hibernating wasps.
Howls along, perfectly in tune,
with all the village’s terrified dogs.
There are monsters that grow as forests in his thoughts
as he sleeps, and sometimes he wakes up screaming
for the spectre of my father and his axe, begs
and begs his ghost to come inside and pollard them.
But our dead stay dead, once they are gone.
Except for my uncle and his murmurating shadow.
It has grown so feathered now, it has its own wings.
Marcia Hindson is a working class writer from the North East of England. She lives on a hill surrounded by woods and fields and a sky full of clouds. Nature has been her teacher since she was a bairn, and this is the fuel for her writing. She understands the edges and scars below things though, in landscapes and people. She loves moss, naming pumpkins, and having parties in the rain. She is currently working on her first collection. Twitter: @maryandthecomet Instagram: mar_claudrin
Helen Gwyn Jones (she/her) started recording her world at the age of 8 when she bought a Brownie camera from her sister, something which has become a lifelong passion. A collector of the past, she likes nothing better than muted images of imperfection. May be found poring over Welsh grammar books when not photographing drains or going into raptures over rust. Originally from Wales, now living in Spain. Recent publications include Hungry Ghost Project, Free Flash Fiction, Acropolis Journal, Paddler Press, Blink-Ink, Hecate, Pareidolia, Moss Puppy, The Levatio, Camas, Subliminal, Terse. Instagram and Twitter: @helengwynjones Facebook: Helen Gwyn Jones Photographic Artist