I shall walk to the girl-cave across the marsh
by Eric Ratcliffe
of the eastern water-birds, my torchflame
riding the earth of cold cousins,
to sit and talk by spices and iron.
Left on the western levels, my barley.
my staves, my great grey dog in the mist.
The arms of the Mother will shield ghostcallers
from our bride-night bodies, until summer light
when she hears the day's songbird.
Her eyes will take silver
from the blue-ring sky.
I shall place in her hands
a sea-fish brooch, a spray of my land-flowers.