The cold wind slaps across my cheek, slaps hard.
We are at the crow’s place, the sooty fibres
Of his black-night wings are glossed with rain,
And we see it. We are Gods, beholding
The green scraps of life with scorn and reverence,
For ‘tis one’s duty to maintain the keep.
You hold me; your black hair shudders frantic
With the breeze, like iron filings bristling
In the magnet’s approach. But you are gleeful,
You have all you need. The wind and the salt air,
The thought of eagles crouching not so far,
You are hope; I have seen the eagles atop the pines.
Flighty sort, haughty, proud – with not a thought
Beyond the stomach’s growl, the rustling bush,
The sweet red gore behind the fur, the scale.
But you – you with your coffee eyes, gentle
Hands cup my freckled skin – you have mind, and space.
The scanty Dunadd fortress, its grassy tumble slipping
Under fizzling Scottish rain, houses so much life.
Lois E. Linkens