You were here last year in your mother’s womb
at this cottage high above the straits.
Now you grab for buttercups, daisies, clover,
self-heal – and edge toward sleep in the stillness
under the parasol. Ringlet butterflies
flit across the grass. Blackbirds forage
among the mulch of last autumn’s leaves
at the margin where garden and woodlands merge.
A pheasant rattles somewhere out of sight.
Watching over you is a privilege.
Some time since last year,