Roll yourself into a serpent skin,
enter the current, swivel and swim,
plunge north, swing your hips
beyond Montrose, the castle at Wick.
The grooved ware pot on its side says come.
I’ll make you gush, whispers the moon.
I’ll embroider moss on the hem of your gown.
Cup my ears for the bell on your tongue.
Mimes of North Tuan Conjures Coundsmoor Brook
posted in: Poetry