Hen Felin

There is a white house sunk in the long grass
and a spring rises, no one knows from where

and there is nothing, nothing and again nothing.
The nothings talk together in the house.

The beach breathes when the tide hisses along it,
each pebble bald as a moon; and the moon rises,

and the rocks melt and wrinkle the bright sea.
Part of you has been living here for years

among the nothings and the silences
which are not nothing and are never silent.

And stranded in the long grass and the weeds
a wooden boat, her timbers sprung by time

the white wood mildewed, SWALLOW on the bow:
a white moon drowning in a green sea.

The knitwork tapestry of furballed goosegrass,
...