The cards flock her windowsill
of one hundred years’ turning.
She flips the white sheet back
with a fairytale number
collects family, in groups, spangling the hospital ward.
Her blue eyes hold a watery gaze.
You’ll have to come and see me.
In drifts, she was born.
Over the next field, her father had lambing
—small new lungs spiked green cries above the snow!
He named her
for the still beauty he pushed his thighs through that winter,
Before the mist falls
before dog walkers into the woods
I’ve pushed back quilts
the way the fuel is revealed,
under the tarp
valuable and patient,
slate steps papered with ash spinneys
like a neighbour’s gift of honey
spread thin across the plate.
A one-tonne bag builds three gilt tiers
woodshed admits boots, hips, and then— morning grace
wicker baskets which once held mushrooms
strange little breasts of earth we ate
kindling now; and one ray of light.
Suzanne Iuppa is a poet and conservationist living and working in the Dyfi Valley, mid Wales. She has essays, poetry and reviews forthcoming in Words for the Wild, New Welsh Review and Poetry Wales. Twitter @wildernesspoet. Facebook: Refuge / poetry by Suzanne Iuppa