from Blackwater Quartet, selection 16

The Bell

It is a language of remembered forms,
the marsh dawn lemon on emerald
and the day waiting to be named.
 
I have woven the shape of the sound
from stork tracks in tidal silt
and vertical brightness scribbled with windows,
along a path wide enough for the wind only,
and still I hear you, across the shift of thorns
and wild pear, an expectancy.