The Oak on Allt Coire Mhàrtuin

by Leonie Charlton

A crumple of hill hides
The Tanning Pool, eye
of Kyloe-dark dreaming:

leather steeping, bellows
fanning Ardmaddy Furnace
for pig iron and warfare.

Above this watchful place
two copper-pink hinds, hefted here
break like peace into bracken

high ears lift away, flick back
on the weight of your breath,
an invitation to get wind of the day

for you the chances are slim.
You head for an oak reigning
over helter of the rising burn.

Up close, ferns and flying rowans
trust with fragile roots
from the hollow of its throat.

The oak shouts for nothing.
You stack vertebrae ‘round its deep belly,
it takes your back

more completely than bone can believe.
Turning your face to barksin
you lose your lips in shadow

ache to be rewritten in oak gall ink
each sepal of your lungs, bough of your mind
defined, indelibly

note the rhythm of my charcoal chambers
ink me viable,  
please, you whisper, your mouth full of moss.