Northwords Now

New writing, fresh from Scotland and the wider North
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by Cáit O'Neill McCullagh

Samhradh is on your skin
cinder warm, I breathe you  
lips loosed to your mouth
pressed then to your heart
we are embers - incense

while we burned the whins
liquid-heating the afternoon
I saw you roar for the joy of it
bellow slow, I burned too

fire licked my breath from me
like it was whiskey
like when a peat tumbles
- or a heart

I lick the salt of you
tip my tongue to taste the Ben
this close blaze between us
your skin, smoke-scent soaked
and all the summer on it.

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