With wet hands I shaped her—
Woman made with bog
with an aeon’s weight of trees.

Light rested.

I knelt down at the source
with peat stained hands
and pressed and pressed
made water lake her lap
until we both reflected in her pool

this woman made of bog seemed part of me,
but I lifted her, anointed her
with final strokes of love,
made indentations
where her ears might be.
I touched her closed eyes
and took her to my room.

We shrink more as the summer closes in
my woman made of bog, the bog in me
are light as air and lifted
and it’s possible to feel
the souls of mothers past
all live in me.

Shrivelled, water gone
our longing is for fire,
with whispers of white smoke
unfurling in the dark
and mornings that leave velvet ash
soft settled in the hearth.