Celendine
She appeared like morning,
chin over the grass knots,
clean skull wrapped in muslin.
John and I sat down by the stream,
stretching out similies,
must have seemed a gift of distance.
With a face like celandine or comfry,
she says
her name is Briony.
She tells us the sheep are saviours
and that it’s only when they’re asleep
that she even considers dreaming,
and often it’s of credit cards
clastonet clapping
the countryside’s cremation.
She gives us some hand outs
on environmental legislation,
mentions that the marsh marigolds
might be worth a look in,
and as we listen,
we swear we see celandine, spreading.
