My Muse

My muse holds
the grit of arctic ice
in her teeth.

Travels south
with Brent geese

On ancient routes
guided by the light
of dying stars.

She is a selkie,
black and sleek
in the waters off
the island coast.

Further in,
spawning salmon
tracking home.

She is the words
that fall
from other mouths.

The reconstructs
of other tongues,

The dissonance
of city sounds
in black sand ears.

She is the sound
of summer nights,
life scuttling in
the undergrowth.

The hare the fox and stoat
and every flea
that bites their pelts.

My muse is
every breath
under Frozen sheets
that shield
a darker face than mine.

And the dreaming
of a boy, that shares
my chest,
my blood and bone.

-Dave Kavanagh

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