Cailleach

last spring when the trees began to lift up their trembling cups of green
I was  the ghost of a virgin moving softly among
my tall sisters but now after the warm nights which have left
of the snowfall only a tattered shawl on the ground you
will see me as a roaring  cailleach with wild hair streaked with earth leaping out
from the rock-cleft far over the receiving pool where in
black knees and elbows smashed fallen branches drown

Simon Weller