Poem: Red eft

After the rain, the earth waits again

for her lover. In the red clover

a newt grasps the stems — a gasp for the red,

Red as the morning storm in the dawning


Red as the eft in the weft of the grass

Red as the heartbeat drumming in the heat

of August, a guest stealing unshed tears.

Red as the child’s cries, red as surprise.


A head bows to that life, that one small life

in the grass. Words weave, fray and then pass

A spider’s snare left threadbare by the rain.

That one small life, rife with red, red, red.



Image: Eastern newt red eft stage, from Wikimedia Commons, the free media repository



About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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