Women's Christmas

Twenty five years ago
beyond the wedge of winter
there was an early softening,

when the warmth

of a blackened ocean

kissed the rocks

of an ancient coast.

And on the morning

of Nollaig Na Mna
or just before it,

in the brown earth
at the foot of a wall

I was surprised
by a frail yellow thing

against a gush

of dark and calloused green.

That tender whispish first outbreath

of the soft wet ground carried

on its pale, low-sun, filled face
the whole of the spring

and summer flowering that followed.
Untamable thing, plucked,

won't last a hour.

Now: after all this time

the scent of rosemary

I took from your skin

on my hardened hands,

join the primrose,

signaling an end to winter;

frail promises of spring