The Isle.

Low peaks rise from the horizon line,
Beckoning waves lapping stone,
Of beaches, shores and cliffs topped of pine,
Sanded, others pebbled, and tall wetted walls, bleached as bone,
This magical isle, fertile green,
majestic Oaks at the dawns, gleam with water, dripping onto swathes of fern,
As if aside crumbling Welsh streams, All manner life here, songs of birds and other calls of wild,
Tempered to whisper in song at dusk, sounding far into dreams,
There is this day, once in its spring, this moment between dawn and the falling sun
when mothers do play,
Moon moths and muntjac disturb the peace by chasing each other, such is their cry,
Lazy blackbirds ride backs of badgers,
And caterpillars arc in celebration, dancing with ants in sun dappled dry,
This is no Eden, some fairy tale where nothing gets eaten,
Their time will come, when later than late, ‘on someone’s plate be I’,
But this day, a celebration of all that the she’s, the ladies of life, have created,
Where all manner of alive look to each other’s eye,
Feasting on nothing but love and sweet hay,
And the plants forth an extra flower,
This beautiful Mother’s Day.