She sits in her stone seat,beside two tractor wheels,musing, the jug beneath her feet,earth of clay at her heels-- dear Kate, prophetess of riverswho sends me lone breezes!When day dies, giving sick sliversof light, and night freezes, Kate, Celtic seer after the wren,with jade shell in each eye,and fox that shies towards its den,she peers across the sky til she finds, ript from its deep sea,sea-splendid, one true starrich as earth and blazing at me--my Kate with one true star! And far up as her dry river bedand down the blue heather,(dead tractor by a lean-to shed!)we see it, together, our lush spectral star, and the wayit fires her paisley shawl,Kate's soft shawl , and breaks like a sprayof daisies along her wall, not far from the jug and stone seat.Alone beside the wheel,half-hid in daisies at her feet,sadly, she starts to feel her Celtic night shake loose like leaves,caught in a morning sky--mystic wren that sings in the breezewith star-shells in each eye (2008)
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Poetry and the Contemporary World
Read. Write. Dream.
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