I think you spy me through darkness, piece
broken clamshells from forgotten seas
down feathers on grass, remnants of a kill
a song you heard in a dream, a harp string
from these you fashion a knowledge of me —
a red yew-berry knowledge, red as blood
and sunsets, the stamened poppy-lure
under dim needles it shelters, dyed glass
in a church window. Sometimes you spy me
on a lake of pale birds, mirroring sky —
White Cat Grove 