Dog otter, forgetful squire, how
long must I wait in this jumble
with my blind, translucent mess?
For the frenzied scent of hounds
rifles our holt, Norse pagans came
after you left—when I broke a little.
Our pups huddled, whined like birds
flummoxed as by the scruff I seized
each one, nudged to a nascent dive.
Baptised in algae, petroleum blooms
they flushed in the lake’s oily shallows
to pop like velvet corks. Or lotteries.
Their fingers knot in prayer, suckled,
they dream of snow slides, shooting
weeds, the bladderwrack of your deep.
What have you plucked from mud?
I watch the homeless crows, eagles quiz
your riddle, my proxy, never to return.
Scraps swivelled, crushed fish-bone,
I sniff a little shuck of homecoming.
The wind blows musk into my dreams.