The Fisherman’s Bride

The Fisherman’s Bride (after GMB) January. I hung a brass chain at my belly. He tugged it, spilt salt-water. February. He rowed me with tranced oars through star-dotted waves. March. He birthed me with his tongue, silver gouts of herring. April. Drunk, hollow-eyed, we took our skulls at dawn to a sweet green gap. May. … Continue reading The Fisherman’s Bride

Song of the Pebble

Song of the Pebble (after George Mackay Brown) Said pebble to black tulip: ‘Whirl until you’re dark tatters, then die’. Said pebble to owl: ‘A chipped cry, a feathered face. Soon. Soon. Soon.’ The pebble spoke to a man drilling a hole in a wall. ‘Tea; breakfast cob. Tonight, draughts of ale; a long sleep’. … Continue reading Song of the Pebble