We ran down to the island
to where the catkins were,
the river surged behind us
dark and black and clear.
As I turned around to show you
gold fairy dust on my hand,
the coiling Lagan swallowed you,
your own twig in your hand.
Sunsilkened hair spread outwards,
in springfed currents ran
and twig and girl inanimate,
the whorling eddies spun,
til beached beneath the lambs tails
soundless bubbles rose,
one by one.
As I clapped my hands, the pollen
flew off my hazel wand in air,
鈥淧retty catkins!鈥 I called, laughing,
鈥淧retty catkins, pretty hair.鈥
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