As it was w’th’heather, early as the dew
formed and fell,
From leaf and bramble inna morninggray’s
mist
and swirl; in the same way
Feelings tumbled from Christine’s eyes
in Fire and Brightness, doesoft and cracklebright.
“Aye,” said the bread man, “that one
Has a smile t’hinder a morning’s deep breath,
an’ a way about her…well, a way
with ice, and a way with fire, t’make
both worlds meet, and speak inna strange,
strange tongue…
‘Nonna, y’know that lass is Christine, d’ye?”
“Well, she comes, and she goes, ye know that; but
ye cannot touch th’ lass, except as she bids.
Y’daren’t grasp or grab,
f’like a faerie she’ll up an’ disappear,
an’ all that’ll be left f’ya to grasp will be
a streak o’ silver on the low clouds scudding
away
o’er the green fields.
Nay, ye mayest only touch that one softly
in th’ heart, leave y’ gift,
an’ quietly slip away…..
Stephen Bolles
All rights reserved
9/11/78