Cloud Daughter

I wave to my cloud daughter
as feathery high she scuds across
washed out sky in ice crystal gown.
I am the red skirt. The scarred earth.
I talk to her in Gaelic. I tell her
the fertility goddesses, Epona, Perseus,
Andromena are in the stars. I tell her
the whitecaps of waves are the horses
of Llyr. I tell her a Celtic spiral is sacred.
I tell her my heart is a rose gold sunset,
a dandelion clock, a weeping furrow.
I tell her that time is an illusion. I tell her
that corsets are made from sparrow bones,
that fairies wear diaphanous crowns,
that crinolines can sing. Tonight, I will
make marrow soup for my living bairns.
I tell her I could have been a buttercup field,
had she stayed. She sheds soft rain tears,
whispers, I’m still here I’m still here.