We please her at the gloaming by the pond
with a pool of milk in a millstone cradle
not warm at all or scorn-boiled.
Solstice, all seasons, each generation.
We flatten against the standing stone
never knowing how she might appear,
always in her favoured green, plaid wafting in Atlantic surge,
or what her mood might be, grey or blue or gold.
We wait for the wailing or the tricks or her
fixing on our scent. Dragonflies and moths
hover on her heartbeat. Deer dart into the ether,
a distant fiddler strums a jig through the indigo.
Copyright © Maggie Mackay 2015
Maggie Mackay, a co-editor at www.wordbohemia.co.uk and a second year student on the MA
Poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University, has work in several publications including
Bare Fiction, The Interpreter’s House, Ink, Sweat and Tears and The Dawntreader.