Carol Ann Duffy

Skirtful of Stones

Livid, running to brain the giant, the stones
fell from my skirt
                            and I crouched
in the circle they made;
only a strip of his shirt in my fist —
well-rid, but. He fled
from my voice, all screech, whinge,
shriek, whine, to his ears, no harmony.
The place wouldn’t harm me;
                                                wind’s tongue in my mouth,
slant rain besotted, storm’s unbreakable vow.
Wow, wow wow wow, unbelievable— a stone calf
birthed from its cow. 
                                  the moon, gobsmacked,
followed me down
                              to the town and its mob
as I twirled in my pleats,
giantess, bellowed my big song, bossed it.