I grow in the meadow field
where land gives way
to the Atlantic. Salt wind and boggy ground
make me who I am,
North Antrim
basalt holds me
beyond reason.
When I find myself
in your house I know
my day has come.
I have been waiting
for your hands,
your fingers work me,
I fold, open
into the shape
I was always meant to be,
three-times fire goddess:
the first catkin, a word, a sign.
