by Beth Langford
Based upon the photograph Tintagel, Cornwall, Dec. 24, 1982 by Arthur Nishimura
Glossy wind, wind which lopes through oaks of unknown parentage, over broom and thrift and tittering leaves that shine like fishes' abandoned skins — Raised dirt road, road the cold, spurred light digs into, road that holds the shape that hooves, iron, rubber press into it, that leads only to more, confounding, light — to Tintagel, the castle the giants built by hand. Midwinter, the peninsula disappears, taken by fog, snowed upon though no clouds blot the sky, and stone by stone the giants gather the castle back into their arms. Bikes whizz by, and carriages; both drawn from memory. A tree thrusts out over the road, crown heavy as gold, branch an antiquated hand twisting up to block the leering sun. The sky's a colloid, that greyish light dispersing the shade of myth and wood, and in the darkroom Tintagel appears and blurs.
Beth Langford is the poetry editor of Ideomancer Speculative Fiction. She lives in Calgary, where she bakes many cookies and evidently enjoys the company of magpies.
When asked to name her favourite fruit, she replied as follows: "My favourite fruit is blueberries, but over the summer I've become a fan of the cherries sold at my neighbourhood farmer's market."
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