The Promotion

Morning

Slowly it begins:

the sun wafts into the garden,

drips green onto the moss,

trails gold along the stone.

The bush funnels up the shade

where it will wait out the day.

Before long, the terrace shines white,

blinds the opening of windows.

The shingles crumple and shift

in the unfamiliar heat.

Umbrella tops drip with bamboo.

Pipes rumble and run along the walls,

the taps accelerate,

the drains burble

with rust-berries and fallen leaves.

Twigs twist out of charcoal bags

and the fences crowd with doves.

Our ladder climbs up! up!

into the hangout of the crows.

But those old birds don’t care;

they are dining on last night’s dreams.

Aerials rake the clouds,

harvest the songs and signals

out of the bluebell sky - 

and the wheel of the morning 

flies open.

Norse Sound-Bites

I.

I am a feeder of ravens.

When you see them swoop

Suddenly from the sky

It is my hand they seek.

I do not feed them

With grain or seed

But with tales of their brothers.

They land in the green clearing,

Circle my feet and listen.

II.

I’m no girl of the houses.

I have read the papers

and know my mind’s worth.

I speak the language of the birds

And know the music of the sea.

I have travelled the swan road

In a ship of night. 

And gathered to my shoulders

The sky’s black cloak.

III.

My oldest friend 

Is the Lord of Laughter.

He tells me things that split my sides

Like an axe splits wood.

When I leave his company

My bones hurt for days.