Ragna becomes a netleaf willow

by Lydia Harris

A withy crown roots into her hair,
creeps past her ears, thrusts
into the sag of chin. Catkins sprout
from her tongue, leaves bud then open

fan after fan and she’s up to her knees
in peat. A comb slips from her pocket.
At her ankles coils slacken their grip,
a branch eases over each breast,

a stem springs her belly.
She’s on her back laced with sprigs,
each tender-tipped and they breathe
puffs of down on her skin,

a blanket a mother might spread
and the Perseids are scoring the sky.
She watches through ice-eyes
as peat-moss overspreads each limb,

rests in her bog bed,
boulder clay firm under her spine.
Her fringe is the shoreline at mid-tide,
waves strewn haphazard on Samland.