I found a shamrock crushed against my sister’s walking boot;
She left the left one in the hallway, when we got back from picking fruit.
She said she didn’t care about such a stupid superstitious thing,
She said that I could keep it, good and bad luck don’t mean anything.

My grandmama – whose fruit we picked – praised my sharpened eye,
And when we settled down to eat, served me the first wedge of pie.
My sister’s protest of unfair! Was completely overlooked,
And grandmama said "well, where were you when the pie was to be cooked?"

I rolled the pastry out, I washed up while grandmama plated;
My sister had slipped quietly outside, and dodged the chores she hated.
"It’s because she found that stupid clover, isn’t it?" She shouted.
Grandmama took away her pie; shocked into silence, she only pouted.

"The clover’s lucky." I explained. "Do you want to have a go?"
"How can it be lucky, it’s just a weed. Let me see, I want to know!"
Grandmama said "Four leafers are novel and hard to see, and sneaky, lay in
wait:
And if you’re alert enough for them, you’re can make your own good fate."

My sister thought a while, went back to her boots, and looked for more good luck,
But all she found was grass and dirt and crushed plums in the muck.
She promised to look harder next time, determined to find her own:
She declared luck something you could plant, and harvest once its grown.

And when you left you smashed the herbs
from the tiny pots that lined the steps.
You kicked them over and crushed them down
and swore at the leafy, dirty mess.

The peppermint smell, reproachful and bold,
stopped me as I tried to follow;
my tears frozen, my attention snagged;
the scent filling where I thought it hollow.

I didn’t hear you drive up the street,
and I didn’t see your final, cursing glare;
I was gathering up my shattered, leafy friends:
as they feeling them soothe the angry air.

In new little pots I realigned them,
and ordered them along the steps, so sweet;
so when you came back, I inhaled their balm:
and so embolded, drove your defeat.

For what can you offer, with your tempestuous grief,
Compared to kind herbs and the aroma-rich leaf?

Get out of my way, for I’ve got plans!
And visions for how the world should be.
I’ve got things to make and things to sort;
And I can see everywhere the world needs me.

Since nobody else is going to start,
Stand aside: I’ve got shit to do.
I can see just how it all can work,
If you’ll follow my rules for a month or two.

If I can get everyone to see I’m right,
To see things the way that I see them,
Then they’ll agree and follow my lead,
And I then I can steer us out of mayhem.

So give me some space, for I’ve got plans!
I’ll call you back when I’m ready to go,
Meanwhile, get ready for what I’ve got in mind:
We’re going to set this world right, y’know!

My grandmother, it transpired,
Was from an egg: was a spider.
And so, when silky thoughts inspired,
Would hide behind the room divider
To privately coil her glorious strands,
and spin the cords into fine light thread;
Then, using only her own eight hands,
Would work all night, well past bed;
So in the morning, one would awake
And find her exhausted but sleepily glad:
A gossamer glory only she could make,
With the opal glow only her silk had.

In all other respects, she met the norm;
Though this magic spinning was her pride
She looked like a grandmother, she had the form,
Apart from eight hands and teeth set wide.
She was occasionally shy of her irregular bits,
But we didn’t notice, we loved her so,
We loved her weaving and fine lace knits,
Eight arms make the warmest hugs, you know.

The traveller, weary and flecked with snow,
fell through the door with a gasp and bellow:
She stared, in shock, at his dishevelled state,
"Quick, man, to the fire, before it’s too late!
Eat something hot, sir, and melt your frost;
You look like you’ve been lengthily lost!"

"Thank you good lady, that’s just what I need:
a chance to rest and a chance to feed.
So very hospitable, irreproachably tender –
though, if I may: I’m of your own gender."
She unwrapped her scarf with a small tired smile.
"Nice to be indoors, if just for a while."

"A while, miss, no! The weather’s too bad:
you wouldn’t go out unless you were mad.
Here: eat this, and there’s a room free upstairs.
Your journey can wait until you’ve repaired."
She brought something to eat and something to sip
and the traveller warmed her frostbitten lips.

She replied, to the host, "You don’t understand:
Where I’ve been is the most glorious, dizzying land.
I’ve tasted the nectar, I’ve chimed heaven’s bell,
Seen frosts like oceans and sunsets like hell.
I won’t trouble you long; I have to go back.
My previous life seems to struggle and lack."

Her hostess frowned and swept the snow off the mat.
"I don’t know any place ’round here like that."
"It’s not really a place, not really a location,
More a way of being, a new incarnation."
Her cheeks darkened and her eyes took a glow,
And the hostess thought to herself: "Here we go…"

The traveller looked longingly back at the door,
"I’m very grateful to you, but I can’t stay any more.
You’ve nourished and restored me: thanks aren’t enough;
now time to go, be the weather so rough."
The hostess nodded, shook the traveller’s hand,
and gave her snacks for the trip she had planned.

So back into the snow the traveller dashed:
And the hostess watched as the flakes fell and flashed.
"Another goes back to the pages and books;
Another one lost to the words’ tiny hooks;
Another reader: they don’t notice the snow."
And in bland warmth she watched the traveller go.