Sally Evans Poems

9 (I)
Who makes a language finds a land.
Who finds a land may also make
a language, stating league and lake,
...

She picks at complex threads
on the growing scalloped edge
in clarity under the skylight
in the dedicated room,
...

Edelweiss
in a cold rockery
colour of ivory
dark-soiled
...

Mountain views in our vistas,
queues in the wet,
a trickle of gardeners furling umbrellas
under chestnut trees,
...

In the long autumn
thin leaf holds to twig, ‭
‬flower to stem, ‭
‬gold-red berry to cluster.‭
...

‭
‬A boat across the Kyle's
clear water, ‭ ‬then a road's
determined stone, ‭
...

The garden climbs the slope behind.
The public street winds through the strath
With cars and coaches past the door.
The building's cool and wide.
...

We came to Kilmartin across the stone bridge
in the dip past the village, ‭ ‬where you observed
the fish and the compass points in your poem, ‭
‬the needles of them in your Gaelic, ‭
...

The strange week I slept to dream
to accept strangeness
and tear it away‭ – ‬through great events.‭

‬When I woke my children were born,
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The girls ask the gardeners, ‭
‬offering brooms under trees, ‭
‬to bash the branches,
bring down a hail of nuts.
...