Poem by Margaret Nairn

Photo by Bill Perrault



Fresh Grass

The look, the feel,
Of harmony
Is of an evanescence that
Prolongs the gift -- far past the
Tasting, to a savoring of light,
Of life, of longing.
When in the cherry orchard,
The nuns drift through blue evening,
With stools,
The cows know—soon
Their load lifts, and milked,
They are moved to fresh grass.
It is a grey call,
When along the cliffs,
Gulls wheel
And the pink granite crumbles
To a fall of scrabbled
Gravel
Amongst tufted yellow gorse
Where the wind grazes.
No blazing
Sunset moves you,
But fog drifting gently over
A damp face
With the horns lowing
At some distant rock and lighthouse.
It is a place you visit, where
Before,
Your soul drank, now
Recalled, it rests.
I see the dank shed as a key
That
Frees these moments,
For un-locked, the travesty
Bleeds
Into knowing,
‘Till the
Bloom purifies the wound,
Washing into water, all good, as food.
Let us bless this Eternity.