It’s still her season.
At the Cailleach’s Kitchen
Grey and blue, glistening like
eels in a tub, but I think
it was something more disturbing
you were washing in that hidden
rock house, surrounded by the booming waves.
Holy crone, slick and turning
the convoluted processes
of digestion, night and
day, hidden and revealed,
life and death all in breakfast meal.
Blood and oatmeal and the dead.
The waves still crash through the rocks,
Echoing further shores.