When she downs in her form,
She ups fresh as wild woodbine at sundown.
On hies she contrives a halt on the hill
To sleeve herself with grit
Which is effective, key
Like a distillate.
She will not be won
From the world’s curved form, her verdant, living skin.
Up there, on her point
Edged with sedge, ancient stone,
She is rooted to the soil that seeded her
And parented in each and every part,
As a particle.
Within this earth, her heaven.
Margaret A. Sands
Runner up, Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing