Spring Stirs in Her Sleep


Spring stirs in her sleep,


tentative tautness, this seeping skin,

this catch in the throat

too afraid to name hope

as predecessor;

life labours in a womb

swollen with the earth’s

heartbeat and

fed by soil’s

placenta. She croons in her dreams,

low mourning dove cries wrenched

from a heart full, overflowing

its banks; her sighs are the

wind in the pussy-willows,

her song the cry of geese on

the wing.

Go to Sleep, My Son

Go to sleep, my son,

the cold has come to stay;

dream your dreams of springtime sun

while winter has its sway.

Drift to lands of warmth and grace

while tucked in cosy bed;

my roots will hold your heart in place,

so rest your weary head.