Tradition suggests that certain of the Gaelic women poets were buried face down. So they buried her, and turned home,a drab psalmhanging about them like haar,not knowing the liquidtrickling from her lipswould seek its way down,and that caught in her slowlyunravelling plait of grey hairwere summer seeds:meadowsweet, bastard balm,tokens of honesty, alreadybeginning their crawltoward light, so showing her,when the time came,how to dig herself out—to surface and greet them,mouth young, and full againof dirt, and spit, and poetry.