Volume 1 Issue 4
Ground Memory, Night River, &
It Was Resurrection Sunday and
Marion McCready
Three Poems
Ground Memory

A cocktail of March snows, coattails of winter,
ground-memory of manna.

A deckchair left out,
a wood-carved bear three smiles wide.

Trees create a cityscape from the snow-fogs.
The helter skelter flakes

caught in the green wings of our garden.
Clouds hatch, crown us.

Comets spinning from a collision of seasons.
First, the tiny spears of snow-rain.

Then the flurry of white jackets.
Night River

Oriental fire-flows,
     watery golds, candle-lit reds.
          The river stretches its silks,
its peacock tail,
     to the yellow-tongued banks
          of the Gourock hills.
The pier, lit by oracles,
     orange balls,
          whose reflections
form multiple
     seahorses of lights,
          pointillism, in the shallows
               of the Clyde.
It was Resurrection Sunday and 

we sat beneath
the barnyard clouds.
The Gantocks, submerged,
but for one hunchbacked rock
sailing next to the broad thumb
of the lighthouse.
Some way up the Firth,
between mainland and Arran,
a ferry, hesitating,
the tail of Bute
sliding into the water.
Blue veins etch
through the milk carton sky,
snow-crumbs harden
on the Gourock hills.
All the while we waited
for a miracle
and the hooded daffodils
scarcely opened.