White Moss, Westray

by Lydia Harris

the individual thus becoming, it has been said, in a manner immortal
(British Mosses Edward Fry 1892)
 
let her baptise you
quench you with new wine

she bears cells like tears

by day she abandons her moorings
keeps pace with the rise of water

at her own extreme point:
these foldings over

something more to see
before words and the rain

she resists, she  allows
at her heart a grove of pines
gnarled as old pram frames

she is yellow, she is approaching red
with green fringes and fingers

plunge further in
than you’ve ever been
more hidden than seen

Moss: Scots: a bog, marsh, mire