St Tredwell – a poem by Lydia Harris

St Tredwell

Into your  keeping
take these curved  forms 
one dying the other weary.

Let me ride the miniature sledge 
on runners of horn. 
I pay with my pin of bone, its human face. 

When she is ripe cut round the moon.
For her and for you I have gathered the remains of a chapel. 
The path there awkward, a stone trail edged with star grass. 

Assist me to reach  
through silence, 
each word the weight of a goldcrest. 

I have worked without speaking. 
I have worked every day. 
Mostly I have been standing in one place.

Hard to believe the shimmer isn’t you

Lydia Harris lives in the Orkney island of Westray. She held a Scottish Book Trust New Writer’s Award in 2017. Her fourth pamphlet A Small Space is due from Paper Swans this year. Her first full collection, Objects for Private Devotion is due from Pindrop Press in 2022.

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