This poem is taken from Stand 223, 17(3) September - November 2019.

Ian Duhig Poem
Druid Glass

See this artist lay eggs
of an extinct great auk
still warm from her kiln
in rows along her table.

If as sterile as St Kilda,
saint only in language,
they’re fertile as zeroes,
Fibonacci’s ‘zephyras’

echoing the wind’s eyes
in adder stones known
as the gloine nan druidh,
the druid glass, each eye

a window onto the future
where ghosts of lost birds
stare back through it at you
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