The river-sun whitens the birch wood trunks.

I lie as foreign as coloured glass amidst the mossy greens,

shadows of birds flying across my skin.

Shushing leaves fill the sky with the rush of the sea, 

and above my closed eyes 

the clouds become boats filled with Nessmen
as
they sail to the gannet skerry

where they’ll find me, in another life,

among the kittiwakes, the sea pinks,

cormorants feeding their young in my ribcage.

3
Ashes

I comb my hair
with dried seaweed.
The black pods of it,
like blood clots,
catch
so that even a gale
able to auction
off my dress,
if it so wished,
could not move
these signatories
of the sea;
the yellow flag iris
on the machair;
or your ashes
from under the earth.