ISABEL CHENOT has loved, memorised, and practised poetry all her remembered life. Some of her poems are collected in The Joseph Tree, available from Wiseblood

spectred land

A single star – a pentacle
cut from the moon’s frill, or some future dawn –
flew near our car. The sky was simple
on one drowsing hill. Beyond,

grazed mountains – ghosts of mastodon.

dawn, the coast, mid-September

Far out, the seabirds

in the silver braids

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wink like white ash. The ocean swerves

dawn-slung and early.

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How slight, their mirrored legs – and how kaleidoscoped,

reflected curves of wading curlews,

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closer, over tide-roped

shore. Each wave re-centers and re-blurs dilating curlews.

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The middle distance spins and shimmers like a dime.

A seagull skims the fallow instant before shock:

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the crack in time, when a wave crams its hollow

on a rock.

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And closer by, prone shadows etch down-sill

of casements flushed with sand. Touch the bright rush –

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reality. The night still drags its fingernails

along the rim. We are its tapering hand.

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We and the brightness brush.