She bends, that is all I can say.
With certainty of uncertainty, she is the cool
calculating receptacle, of death.

Be she lagoon,
or maelstrom, be she the Salish
choking in the British Columbian cold
or the Celtic, pulling Éire and Cymru
back to her,

she is a mountain in her own right, unable
to be moved, withstanding time
longer than rock.

When I lay with stillness,
I think of her like hollow, white, bones;

living far beyond life, dispelling
rot and blood and mind. I remember
I once saw her in a vision above my window,
chasing the sky.

She is fuchsia, a canary wing, a double headed
blue, cradling lavender and carnal ruby.

A soft grey, often
crinkling upon the night.

As black as our deepest sleep, swallowing all stars,
her belly a vast basin
dispelling all doubt and fear.