‘poetry is a way of happening, a mouth’—W.H. Auden
Silt, by Aoife Lyall
It gathers in the riverbeds and basins of your hands.
You hold it tight in your small fists: it is the tenuous
grasp you have on the world and you resist when I
try to loosen it. Asleep, I unfurl each newborn finger
and, with the tip of my smallest nail, lift the daily
sediment away. Beneath, the long lines of your life,
your head, your heart, run still and deep: your future
mapped out in miniature, tucked into the steadfast
folds and creases of your palms.
‘Silt’ is from Aoife Lyall’s debut collection, Mother, Nature (Bloodaxe Books)