#6 Rathlin Island, Emma McKervey

Rathlin Island

There was a brief glimpse, and then, with shifting the line of sight

to accommodate the patch of gorse, both hares, boxing, could be viewed.

There was compact power in the haunches of each,

upright, and above the sheep nibbled grass,
beneath the sunlight, the blonde coats shimmered.

Through the breath grimed window at the back of the bus,

somewhere between one jolt and another on that aging lane

a single hare turned, found my gaze, fixed it with his Nordic stare.

This is the amulet I keep now about my neck, invisible against my breastbone,

This is my talisman: the hare’s regard, the unfactured sky, the swaying sea,

and the tiny speedwell scattered through the turf.