I chose your grave clothes with care,your favourite stripey shirt,your blue cotton trousers.They smelt of woodsmoke, of October,your own smell there too.I chose a gansy of handspun wool,warm and fleecy for you. It isso cold down in the dark.No light can reach you and teach youthe paths of wild birds,the names of the flowers,the fishes, the creatures.Ignorant you must remainof the sun and its work,my lamb, my calf, my eaglet,my cub, my kid, my nestling,my suckling, my colt. I would spintime back, take you againwithin my womb, your amniotic lair,and further spin you backthrough nine waxing monthsto the split seeding momentyou chose to be made flesh,word within me.I’d cancel the love feastthe hot night of your making.I would travel aloneto a quiet mossy place,you would spill from me into the earthdrop by bright red drop.