When I am tempest-torn and grief-lorn,
shredded by the weight of my own self
against the spider-silk weft of this heavy world;
when I lose my nerve or head
and begin to bargain with castles I have built –
offer them more grit, more stone, more water,
argue they are not porcelain;
when I look at the moon hidden by the North Coast’s
shower fog, and ask to taxidermize it –
then I turn shore-ways and observe
white chariots riding roughshod over the rocks,
splintering when they reach the sand,
retreating into the seething foam
of Thursday’s storm sea.
and when I want to lay down all I ought to be
and take up what they would make of me,
I think of this, and all the waves are still:
the grass in heaven is stronger than my strongest will.

Ruby Dunn

Ruby Dunn studies and writes in Scotland, where she takes inspiration from her faith, her degree and the Scottish landscape. Her work has most recently been featured in Stanchion, Scissors and Spackle, and Trampset.

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