Aileen Kelly: Between finger and thumb

On such small land
between north head and south bay
any standing is in touch-reach of the sea:
no need to define the limits
of a personal estate.

At sunset eyesight heads east
and east and east until it trips
over the horizon into rising dusk.
An aorta of darkness
pulses towards the southern cross.

All summer
a cold spring wells and whispers
under the hot leaves.
She laces her fingers to bring carefully
a small shared water to their workdried lips.

Leaves shuffle the seasons,
light-angles move across thready bushes
unsteadily timing the hours,
birdstorms incoherently
tumble through scatters of petal.

Sky's voltage cracks down on their hearth
and stuns it into order.
On an island this small
(for the camera he sideshows
between finger and time-flattened thumb)

in a worldscape too large
to play other than dangerous games with
(she nods her two-penn'orth)
they stretch out unclad arms
and juggle each day.