Aird Mor

At the back of a cave discreetly screened

by a curtain of watery lace

a hind lies on her side, legs stiff

with blackened tongue and vacant eye.

Beneath her tail in vain protrude

two perfect, pointed, cloven hooves.

She should have torn his caul away,

licked clean his nostrils, eyes and mouth

and nudged at him to stand  then felt

the triumph of first milk, his greed

as gums clamped onto brimming teats.

She should have led him through wet drapes

into the sun, the glittering. The shush and pull

of heaving sea, the piping cry

of Bridget’s birds; and shown him how

to tread his way on shingle shore and shale

between the cliff and twisting waves.

Whose heart stopped first? Her unborn fawn?

Or did the hind give up the fight,

while he still struggled to reach the light?

The pain - rolling in waves - subsides.

Blinds drawn down over her eyes.

The plashing of water fades and dies.