Shaela

I'm knitting a shawl of light summer mist.                                                           

More air than wool, it can slip through a wedding ring.

I will hap up my bairn when he suckles at night,

at the dead time when the world's asleep

and it's only me and him and the moon

and the crying of the seals

circling, sliding over and under,

over and under, snout to tail

until it's hard to tell

which one is which.

What is me and what is my bairn,

my moon-gazer who fell from the stars?

Published in my pamphlet  'Flout' (Happenstance, 2015).