Straight from the moors
Where snow outstays its welcome
Lying like pieces
Of an abandoned jigsaw,
Wind in a frenzy
Batters the hazels,
That by now should swing
Censers of pollen: rips
Brimmed — over pools
Into blue rags of sky:
Rough–necks sheep
And bullies birds.
Only a pair of plovers
Risk a few tumbles
For the sake of love.
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 2009–2021. All rights reserved.