Cailleach

Mammoth, winter mother, hot cheeks with the slap of summer, 

warmth making bones supple and soft like mallow, 

Tiny sickly little things, purple and swollen,  

pushing up from the earth, 

so thirsty and needy! 

I bring my staff down on their heads. 

My mind strove through glacial corridors,  

alert, eyes bright like a winter hare,  

Now, thawing thoughts muddle,  

a fuzz of swarming beasties.  

My land, putty under my thumb, 

revolts as it relaxes in forks of sunlight, 

It is no longer mine.