Pip McGough

Sappho’s Daughter

At the harbour

she’s setting stone on stone

against a wind drawn down

from the outer water.

Fresh thyme in her hair today.

She has her mother’s eye

for measure and level,

not her leave to squander it.

After sunset

the hours’ grit at her ankles

she listens to the tide

testing the wall.

If it stands

she says nothing.

If it shifts

she begins again.