There’s freedom in the ecstasy of grasses,
stalks prostrating, flung as jib
or clacking spinnaker.
A sharp faced colt, legs slim as wickets,
bucks for the joy of it.
Time glides here like a hawk
shadow stealthing fox-red bracken. Far out
the cone of Ailsa Craig
flukes
sea-glass breaks
dolphins
flint-backed, tumbling
in the fish glutted strait hundreds skip
a ring o’ roses round the coves
then plough from view
behind the headland’s granite levitation.
Ascending Mullach Mor by Claire Booker | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
