Swan Song: Saint Cecilia’s, Ardullie

for L V

by Cáit O'Neill McCullagh

Hidden in what light winter’s creep can spare,
this melody of closeness—you, incessant:
the whooper swan, wings beating to tender

night’s thickened air. Snow happit, the firth sounds 
her silence upon me. This closure of day things— 
pure chant of woodlark, unvaried; the clean cut 

of robin chirr. I turn my dial south-south-east
to Croft na Creich. Your hearth: tintinnabula
of cups; spoonchime; tea; frosted earth unsullened,

our laughter. Each planet that pierces this blanket sky: 
a bright ringing bowl. We hold the blue note too; 
that quartertone of grief that has us shoogled

upon this earth, cry it: how in Kabul women 
are made unshapes of cloud. How they are songsisters— 
call & response—that not one should remain a bell unrung.

We’ll mind on pomegranates, mo charaid, slakit lips
& listen to An Eala sing. Strong her straightened neck.