January (From “My Word Hoard” Chapbook)
break stubborn sod
let it roll a slice of loaf
offered by pumiced blade
spread the saved seed
of last years harvest
with a wish for a better crop
plough ship makes waves
in the cold brown field
flapped over by hungry beaks
Chanter
Enter her grove barefoot,
no leather here,
no blood sacrifices
done.
Offer her honeyed milk,
not wine. Offer water to wash,
olive oil, salt, honey, coarse meal,
sweet scented flowers,
cakes drizzled with honey,
soothing herbs, especially
those of childbirth
and breast-feeding,
rue, malva, and salvia,
perhaps a special dish
of cheese and herbs.
She is a presence,
a voice only, no image.
A post of cypress-wood,
draped in cloth, perhaps.
Otherwise a living tree
to recall her sacred grove.
Her rites are done outside.
She spares our daughters
heavy with bairn,
spares our wives
in pangs of labour
Cares for the mams
who fret over their bairns
carrying on now,
and how they fare.
She lives for now.
Part of her that may be
one sister knows what’s been
another what is to come.
[First appeared in “Three Drops From The Cauldron”]
Ice Crackles Faces (with spoken word)
flamereed flickerflicker
emberkernels lap air
conflagration without heat
In the lap of the grain
as it breaks against gust
Amongst reedsway, cootcall,
waveruffle, barkgangsign, trunksundials.
Amongst Geese and Seagull echoes
perfect reflections under a halfmoon and quiet blue.
Evensong of last bell before eyeshorizon darkens and thought
sinks into eyes well to fetch waters reverie into light.
Winter colours layered weather bittercoldflares
inside skin, cloudsputter sharpcinder ice crackles faces.
Red The Strong
Belief is a ship
on the fish flecked sea,
close hauled and tacking,
against this Christian gust.
It has a dragon’s head,
and aft a crook, which turns up,
and ends in a dragon’s tail.
Gilded carved work on each side
of the stem and stern.
I call this ship “The Serpent”
Its hoisted sails are dragon’s wings.
I’m brought before me boss,
who offers me baptism.
“And,” says he, “I will not
take thy property from thee,
but rather be thy mate,
if thou wilt make thysen
worthy to be such.”
I exclaim with all me might
against his offer, say
“I’ll never believe in Christ,
and this so called God.”
Boss was wroth, and says “Thee
shall die worst of deaths.”
He orders I be bound
to a beam of wood, me face
uppermost, and round pin of wood
set between my teeth
to force me gob open.
boss orders an adder
rammed down my gob,
but adder shrinks back
when I breathe against it.
A hollow branch of angelica root
is stuck in my gob; others say boss
put his horn into me mouth,
and forces adder in
holds a red-hot iron
before me open gob.
So adder creeps into it,
down me throat,
gnaws its way out my side.
My last breath is a ship
on the fish flecked sea,
close hauled and tacking,
against this Christian gust.
Iceskin
Trepidation of iceskin
gentle timpany
wavers on tremblewater
for freeze forward
or rewind to water.
A reluctance of snow
settles into puddle
now it is oceanbound
A hesitation of flakes
wet scarfs, gloves, coats
nudge out the word ‘snug’
