Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart
Who were these invaders?
Haunting the holloways, harrowed by hooves;
feeling our footfall fragment the flint.
Scanning the canopy’s inosculation,
we glybe through glossamer and squint in the glisk.
Dustsceawung is unavoidable:
dreams flit into smeause, like mice through a crack;
dilemmas dissolve through smoot holes.
Preoccupation is piffling to us.
We head for a hill-fort; spy on a settlement,
among the shadowtracks and shivelights
at the selvedge fray of a sown field.
After a shower, a pungent petrichor
permeates nostrils and a landskein
looms over the horizon, like smoke from their huts.
Soon it will be wolf-light; eawl-leet softens
and Heimweh’s heft hirples our hearts,
so we summon the sun wane
on the suthering tide, where we tied our ships.
May a spanging breeze freeze the salt in our beards!
Helmsmen, we long for the Hran-rad and home.
A quennet for a woman who made a fortune with her pen:
fourth daughter Gloucestershire born Mendip Hills
religious tracts pastoral plays Sunday education
‘strange affair’ Bleeding Rock jilted female
strange plays female education pastoral landscape