the bass sets panes quaking,
she looks for inverted cattle gripping the horizon,
listens for the spider in the whispering window ─
my voice is lost in the sea's rush
out of Bishop's Mill now you've tripped
the brackish line drawn round pladdies,
making post-glacial shelducks hover
like kestrels till your hair's dry
and you can right Ardkeen.
The birds are used to waiting for icecap meltwater,
for all the macrobenthos,
lugworms, ghost shrimps, queen scallops,
the northern Venus, to re-emerge
from soil, spontaneous, Savage's Castle
to Cloughey. I'm content just, teaching heifers
to walk paired in white on black on white
on the planet's grassy ceiling ─
she surveys her day, incredible baby blue
with geometries in thorn and ash,
the hill higher; she gauges the drumlin of her belly,
tallies stretching weeks;
doubled over to dry her hair, she wonders
how long she'll be able.
Credit: Matt Kirkham
Video by Laura O'Gorman (QUB Student)
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