Quill

Feathers, from the god disguised as bird,
once wrapped that god in warmth - once nestled

companionably when he skimmed the lough,
shivered when the bold wings were spread,

whistled when he cleared the wood and lifted
toward the moon. Now they’re lined up, trimmed,

waiting for words which hide at the bottom
of the inkhorn - silence is filled with the mischief

of words. And the patient ink remembers the rock
where the god disguised as lichen clung, hears

the cry of gulls, sniffs the salt wind. The sheepskin
senses again the damp grass, sun glimmering on sea,

and milk streaming. And the god disguised as child
picks up the quill, dips it in ink, and calls the words

to her, tempts them with cheese and honey, promises
peatsmoke rising, a firm bed, a blanket of rushes.

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