A Toast

A branch smooth as the rubbed foot of Saint Peter,

puce, porous, rinsed by wind.

Clean spear of a skeleton.

Bridge of a Roman nose.

Cask of air.

When I walk into that croft,

the trees at my back like a reredos

carved by rain,

then the day could pour like ouzo

into my crystal thimble-

a shot of air for friendship,

a bar of bleached light

for the necklace of stones

strung on the chalky ridges-

a blackbird smearing the trees

for our daughters in the alizarin of day.

Then, a swallow could hook

its neck on a rafter,

a hawk mistake a lure

for God and Country,

I wouldn't know-

my shot glass

a splintered flock of feathers

in the wind.