by George Mackay Brown
I make seven circles, my love,
For your good breaking.
I make the grey circle of bread
And the circle of ale
And I drive the butter round in a
golden ring
And I dance when you fiddle
And I turn my face with the turning
sun till your feet come in from
the field
My lamp throws a circle of light,
Then you lie for an hour in the hot
unbroken circle of my arms.
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