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cover art Poems from the Other Land by Ruth Mark
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E a s t e r   E g g s

He was nostalgic last night
for a long-ago time when
two wee girls would go picking
whins to colour the eggs
bright yellow, innocence
personified, their bond strong as iron.

The smell of those whins
boiling in water producing
fluorescent yellow, bleeding
filling the saucepan
turning the ovals to small suns,
pungent perfume fills my nostrils
the memory so strong it
catches in my throat.

We’d bash those eggs
against a stone wall at
the foot of Slemish. Could never get
the shells to crack by rolling
them over the rocky grass
yellow flecks with white underbellies
days long gone yet vivid still.


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