Small blue flowers I can’t name, a single daffodil
salt water whipped from Denmark: white stallions rear shorewards
foaming at my window; wind a low roar
a bird forged from fire
branches point skyward, a black silhouette against angry seas
the damp breeze brushes through waking branches, as grey clouds slowly swirl and morph veined with ivory and black; no sun or moon or stars will bless this day
the wander of two robins rocking, eating fat balls, together
the farm a stopped clock waiting for the key-turn of spring
across the warm March air, the other breath
gossamer webs glisten like fairy trampolines abandoned at dawn
bracken and mud trampled either side of the new stone wall
crows dance, held aloft by wet wind and wet feathers
in the bay’s eddy, eiders are pulled together by the current
waves crash in over ancient rocks, and return
moon-raker scooping dust – perhaps a new element knocking on physic’s door
seagulls cry, flying in a vortex above me
a straggle of snow on my closest mountain
this woman is the breath between the grains, this woman is spunk in the belly of the stove, her feet print the track to the well
this rock is a who not a what.
***
Braided by
Marion Archibald
Sue Blennerhassett
Christine De Luca
Lydia Harris
Christina Golian
Angela McG
Monika Szuba
Catriona Temple
Jacqueline Tweddle
Lynn Valentine