We share
premonitions, are governed by moons
and novenas, sisters cooling our wrists
in the stump of a Celtic water stoup.
Not lust but long labouring
absorbs her, mother of the ripening
barley that swells and frets at its walls.
Somewhere far away the Severn presses,
alert at flood-tide. And everywhere rhythms
are turning their little gold cogs, caught
in her waterfalling energy.
Thanks to moss for finding this one in her, The Presence of the Past by Jeremy Hooker (quoting from Clarke’s second book, Letter from a Far Country).
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