Such small things/ Fat hen, wood sorrel, bog myrtle/ Spittled across the island ground/ Hawthorn, sticky willow, honey suckle/ Singing, ‘Do you love me enough?’/ like a blinking echo over the water.
You, give us something to bend for
Something to worry at. And
pluck the golden sprigs off. And
chew the greening flesh from.
These are simple dances.
Obedient as ants are.
- Sweeney's Bothy