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in
collection, Island Sisters, 2005,
The Redlake Press,
ISBN 1 870019 21 0
The Return
Dawn
is eggshell light, a daughter day
of
all our days and time at first making.
On
the horizon’s stately curve, the sun
rises
to old rhythms, climbs an airy
scaffolding
of gold and pulls down night.
The
island empties in a white mirage.
I
turn to look, undaunted by old grief.
White
crosses radiate down to the sea,
poppies
dip and float in wayside tides,
banners
wave among the drowning flowers.
A
distant sea wind echoes the last post
reminding
me of all that’s gone before.
Your
finger prints are etched into my heart
casual
as graffiti and sometimes
a
holy book, a slow calligraphy
whose
minute architecture holds a sense
unknown
and yet its beauty makes a whole
of
all life’s tragedy and transience.
The
dead are never lost, they are a part
forever,
though apart. Death is a pause,
a
silent ground from where a pulse uncoils
and
spirals into green to touch the hand
and
heart of living things. So death stores life,
bringing
it fragility and form.
I
head due north, the wind swings in my sails.
All
I learned, a pilgrim outward bound,
I
guard in secret like a talisman.
And
when night’s violet waves leap up like whales
against
the stars, and I am overwhelmed,
green
wings protect me in my disbelief.
Susan Skinner
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