Yarrow

Amongst the horse shit,

I pick milfoil for a tinture.

A witch I have become.

Scything

Aa grip ma snath,

The silva blade glints, heel to toe,

Shearing the damp grass.

Aa retraced their steps

Those heavy skorted wimmin,

Bent like sticks t’pick coal.

Sticky hairy sphere,

Clinging to my flowery dress.

New dry land to seed.

The first one of the year.

Red gem on faded grasses,

Round, fat, spotted Buddha.

You sang to the moon,

As the earth’s shadow passed over.

A blood red saucer.

Plaits lie on the field,

weaved in are speckles of yellow

soon to be haystacks.