Janine Pinion
Llyn
(For A)
Deliberately, I suspect, a sudden release of breath
dissolves the hawthorn frill of your shirt. To the oak’s applause
your cairned breast beckons, earth and craft’s collaboration
in beauty, history, experience. The turn of your lanes
damply promises unsmooth belly, omphalos in your wells,
a small forest smelling of life’s muddy source. Stretching into strait
your leg, playfully toeing Merlin’s keep, precipitates my fall
into your quiet streets.
You are no stranger to exposure. Ice, water, storm
pound at seams, unpick your neolithic gown. Braving
the dome of your pier I arrive at your harbour, recognise
my own ship ready for the round to where your head’s thrown back
in a hanging valley I cannot reach on land
and where I’ll whisper ‘I am here’.
Page(s) 10
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- Second Aeon
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