Diviners A child, I followed him around the field, held a wish-bone between my fingers. And when he paused and felt the strain, I watched his strong wrists twitch. I saw the fresh green hazel twig upend between his hands – helpless against the surge that convulsed from streams below. His eyes tightened; I tightened my eyes too and willed my wish-bone give a sign that this gift would pass from his warm hands to mine. Breda’s poetry collection...
