Murmur

 

In that ache before the flow,

The pull and tug of ovary to earth,

She bends to tie and stack,

Turn and twist, quiver and quell, 

Caught in the yield and flow

Of croft and shore.

The barley sings back in echoes of itself.

At sea, in lipping waves, 

The arrowhead bow of their boat

Clips the fabric of sunset,

Splitting fire-etched water.

She shields her eyes from the glare,

To catch a far flicker of a wave,

Before pulling ash keys from her pocket

And unlocking their susurrating bower.