Go Us To My Protector Poem by Mark Heathcote

Grasses feather in the wind.
Determined, swift like an envoy
Dart along the barn, crosswind
Life fills the air inextricably with joy.
Like the joy of a young child.
Arms open, running, running downhill.
As for a second, the wild,
Wild wind, on the deep wet moorland, stands still.

Tippling back on her heels
She'd summersault and then balance in the air.
White-faced like daisy wheels
Pink laced: Grips hold of her neckwear.

Her enamelled breath
Is it a vortex of living power?
Shuddered cold in death
She fills her lungs like an open flower.

Her face was the very first carved opal
Rounded in its pleasure
Smiles in the mysteries of the marginal
World, mysteries we all treasure.

Like the swift beneath the old cowshed eaves
That's a glint, a spectre
Like rushes that retain their leaves
Go us to my protector.