and then the volcano.
Burnt out dovecot,
the pigsty’s outline in ash.
Cracks extended like columns
from floorboards laid on earth
to the roof then the water came.
He stood by his too-short bed,
named his ship, Strangled Sister.
Feet in wet clay he fastened the house:
the wind too high to hear its call, the night too dark to
She stole cheese,
conversing in the too-loud space, the thunder cracked, SOME DAY.
She brooched her shawl, lowered the gable ends
(scratching on the cliff, softening in the sea)
ran circles round the once-was house,
sold oysters to the neglected
Father’s Low Birdsong
Dolphins hold their newborn on the surface
of the water, where horses and bears may kill.
Such depression— warm air lifting cloudy skies,
a steady wind blowing the land clockwise.
Young birds learn the songs of their fathers.
He may be deaf to his own song—its syllables,
feedback, static—but the song is sung, delivered.
Kathrine Sowerby lives in Glasgow where she runs tell it slant, a poetry bookshop, and makes fourfold, a curated publication. Her poems and translations have most recently been published in Gutter, Under the Radar, Poetry Salzburg Review, A Bird is not a Stone and Aesthetica. Kathrine’s background is in visual art, she won a 2013 New Writers Award from the Scottish Book Trust, and recently took part in a Highlight Arts poetry translation project in Lahore, Pakistan.
Her website is kathrinesowerby.com.