The Day Before LUGHNASADH

A single shadow falls

from my feet into the forest


The wind has wet weather

in its mouth


Words splinter, running away

and I chase as fast as a thought


As fast as a hand might grasp another

touch and examine- lines, scars, patterns


Whose hand then?

Writhing in my palm


Fingers washing a story onto my skin

So now I prepare to decide


What has this year produced

What notions remain


Were the moments as rich as the story

Will my bruises and cuts heal


Another feast that strikes the year in questions

Each finger a different place to follow


A valley, a curve, an edge, a health mark in every nail

All you need is glove.


Roger 30/7/09