Three Poems

Solomon’s Seal

Shaded by the self-seeded hazels
In a back corner of our garden,
To the right of the flowering currant
An unexpected Solomon’s seal
I want to show you. Does it matter
Why such graceful bells are so called
(Seals of a medieval document?)
It’s May, and Solomon says: Rise up,
My love, my fair one, and come away,
Winter is past, the rain is over
And gone, flowers appear on the earth.
A solitary cowslip has survived
Under our beech the first grass-cutting.
The time of the singing of birds is come.

Takabuti

in the Ulster Museum

My granddaughters stare down at her,
A petite fashion-conscious Egyptian
Not much older than they are, her face
Darkened by incense and time, her linen
Eyeballs returning their gaze, her hand
By her side as though to welcome them,
Her foot poking out of the bandages
As though to follow them to the exit
And accompany the rest of their lives.

Flycatcher

A flycatcher crashed against the window.
Amelia cradled the corpse in her hands
And tried to breathe life into breast-speckles,
Imagining a mossy clearing where
Shadowy trees intertwine, branches
From which to loop and glide and, arrow-
Swift, chase butterflies and stinging bees,
A fledgling like herself, wing-flurry
Flashing in the sun, a little bird
Practising its name and trajectory.