SHARK REEF, Winter 2006-07 - Molly Swan-Sheeran: Poetry

SHARK REEF
A Publication of the Lopez Writers Guild
Vol. 6, No. 1
Winter 2006-07

Poetry

by Molly Swan-Sheeran

The Winter Wren

The medusan snarls of bull kelp
seem to writhe on the beach
where a southerly flung them ashore.
In the fading light
their golden brown lengths
twist around each other
like an ancient Celtic design.
My eyes squint as the last sunshine
glints off the twill-woven sea.
Among the kelp the winter wren
flicks and picks at a wealth of bugs
Its brave upturned tail
and soft umber feathers
tell a simple story.
On Saint Bridget's Day
if a wren enters your house
it portends either a death in the family
or having a priest to dinner.
Generations of Irishmen
have scurried to ask the priest to dinner.
And so the happy wren
ensures the clergy
a hearty meal
while following its nature
to find a sheltered spot to nest.
Before the church came.
it was the Day of Bridget, the Triple Goddess.
The dinner guest
might have been a Druid,
a poet, or a smith.
Our spirits cleave
to the simple continuity
of birds.

Turning Down

The leaves are bruised and gnarled
by the turning down of the light,
and we are slapped silly by wind and rain.
The onset of the dark time,
cyclical, explicable, relentless,
despised or welcomed.
The damping down of the life fires
for the long night of the year
must happen
tended to by the unseen hand.
What can we say, what can we know of that,
Unseen Hand?
Only that is does come,
and,
with its tender tucking-in,
assures us that what is turned down
rises to the light again.

This November Wind

At last the sun
breaks free of the gray cover,
leaving a glaucous sheen
on the horizon.
Two eagles,
inspired by the wind,
spiral around each other
in their amorous dance.
Aerobatic
in the gusts and updrafts
their strident call seems to echo
as they envision a clutch of eggs
gracing a nest of branches and twigs,
spacious atop a noble-fir snag.
What strange flotsam, feathers, bottled messages
will fetch up on our beach
in this November wind?
As the sky turns robin's-egg-blue
in a pale froth of golden peach,
we accept that each indrawn tide,
like each indrawn breath,
like each spin of our Earth
from dark to new light,
is a gift.

Molly Swan-Sheeran, who makes her living as a metal smith, has been writing poetry for more than 35 years. She has also written a book about designing paper-cut Celtic knots.


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