The Owl Service
If there’s a heart of heather woven with thyme
rosemary, sage and broom
there’s the tight tiara perched on her head
by the hands of the man who made her
there’s that holiday home in a thin still wood
the housekeeper’s boy
a brother half-made
and a girl choosing wings over roots
In the sigh of white
feathers edge fawn.
Dead-head the roses,
dry lavender, flox
There’s a storm in the earth where memories stir
A crack in the sky where hands grasp at new
And a fierce underlining of choice