It's the lightning, the way it dances through the field.
The way it tickles the leverets until they are dead.
The way it hollows all the molehills into furrows.
Even hooks a cow inside the bellybutton of the mast,
becomes the creature's first and last jaunt beneath
a pylon's peculiar tummy. Now she's no longer in a hurry.
But her bones will know, and her volcanic marrow.
The way the ache in the landscape is kinetic, is kindling.
And the three bairns with their jam jars full of things
with wings that cannot sting, they will know too.
Skin is such a delicate thing; soft as moss on the throat
of an ancient oak, soft as breath as it abandoned its path.
There will be stories about the dogs; wolf hounds
behaving like stoats. All skittery and wary and tired.
The way they have now of existing inside their fur.
Haunting two homes smelling of ghosts, of storms.