I am, on sunday, the wind
tearing across existence with the ferocity
of madness and merriment
not to be held in your socks
I am, on monday, the earth
bleeding fire from every crack
in my skin and tears raining down
like a soothing balm of life-giving fury
I am, on tuesday, the winter's snow
blowing far across the last of autumn's fields
becoming a protective blanket of death
joyful in the sleeping sun
I am, on wednesday, the raven
slave to Woden's will, making a nest
from bits and pieces of wisdom,
rumour, philosophy - whatever I pick up
I am, on thursday, the lily
open yet elusive, painted for every occasion
yet always remaining wild enough
to still care about emotion
I am, on friday, the child
curious beyond all caution but serious
enough to laugh like endless chimes of
faery-rung bluebells calling
I am, on saturday, the grave
silent in all contemplation, lost
to normal thought while breathing in
stony pale gasps of honeysuckle air