Susan Rennie ~ Untitled

Prayer of disappearing:
o, let me return someday to California
after I am dead, transformed
to a succulent on a bed of black
stones, my world entire as far as
I see, roots deep in a terracotta
pot with other hoarders
of water, where we sit still
day after day, not looking to each
other but up, up to the sun god
who never lets it rain,
we never spill
we never know
we’re not responsible
we bloom as if by
accident, terribly free,
and we hardly grow
thirsty

—Liz Robbins at Diode Poetry

Isle of Islay by Donovan

How high the gulls fly
O’er Ilay
How sad the farm lad
deep in play
Felt like a grain on your sand

How well the sheep’s bell
music makes
Roving the cliff
when fancy takes
Felt like a tide left me here

How blessed the forest
with birdsong
How neat the cut peat
laid so long
Felt like a seed on your land