Migrations are always difficult:
ask any drought,
ask the year 1947.
half silhouette and half myth
the wolf circles my past
Corn is great, on the cob or otherwise,
but before corn in the ear there was life.
The sea came in with her and her curved snout
and her tin coloured barnacles
and long threaded rose moles
patterned on her body.
The hive slept like Argus
its thousand eyes covered with bees.
Long and lonely are my nights.
Come help me Goddess, end my blight;
her absence burns me, burns my sides
with love intense.
Perhaps I'll wake up on some alien shore
In the shimmer of an aluminium dawn,
I am alone in the house.
It is warm
but I feel cold.
The doors swing open across the years.