The poetry of form, the poetry of water, of paint, of flesh, of whimper, of memory, of winter.
Of unwanted limbs and restless hands. Of unanswered cries, of unstroked palms; of tiny hands worn to stumps through wanting.
Of motherhead-grown legs & a face lamb formed wet on the hillside, left in the sun for bees to breathe in, and sap to suckle; flesh with mist, limbs black and languid…cot-babe opened out on hillside, island-baby black-rocked and wild, bird-beloved, beaten out by Picts.
The One with the flight-burrowed breast
limbs bent as branches bleached,
Hammered in place on the hillside,
mountain-top white where bird voice high-pitched shrieks…
A plea in a high place,
snow-clean, praying, solitary, sleeping.