by Sophie Else

i watch you
up on the headland
working stone on stone
against the cloud,
the ton weight of wet air
bringing on the ghosts.
and you, steady black
in the white rain,
delivered to your self,
don’t see the wading birds
that steep the shore
down here,
serious in the salt tumble
and the wind, preacher,
chaste in its fury,
keeper of flight.

how we call out

and yet, if you turned,
saw i was waving,
saw the birded light
lands light here
in the high green banks of sea,
would it matter,
would it change
your slow strange march against the sky?

— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 1