they rinsed us from you & we came to
beneath harvest of smoke & our tools
of part memory, part dream & the dead
where they slept beneath our quilts
the peat bog will not forget, so holds
a dropped awl & still-opened hand
of at least one distant ancestor
having never met
dream leaves its memory
on the raw side of hide
& we gathered foxglove
at eventide from hills that bore
its crash, folding fields
to stitch a robe for moons
to outlast where we held the flood
until it remembered us
by settling remains in the moss
of that moor
where only the listening
from here on out is left & now
the feathered chest-dweller
coughs beneath the ribbed rafters
& we wait with low hum of estuarine mud
in our mouths
where round howls
too sharp to keep where
she gathers them
& us
still holding
that flood
by ripple marks in stone
her song remembers
the weight of our collected
bones to whisper back
o water,
where did your flood
last end?
Beautiful Stacey. Odd how you and I seem to be on the same wavelength at the moment: foxglove, peat, moors and our ancestors. All these bones we have that we return to. Again, beautiful.
Thank you, Michael. In a hot week where the sun feels relentless, I find myself longing for the misty moors. And perhaps a slower dominant register. It never ceases to amaze me when I see these serendipitous parallels in your writing. Grateful to be in your excellent company, friend : )
As I am grateful for your company and friendship. Thank you 💙
I could handle a slower register myself, and I am already longing for crisp autumn days. I hope you find some comfort soon.
So many great lines in this, wow! My favourite stanza is probably:
& we wait with low hum of estuarine mud
in our mouths
Catherin, Thank you for this. I appreciate you taking the time to let me know : )
Great piece, Stacey, a sense of past and present connection.
Thank you for this, Chris. That connection seems to be one of my perennial obsessions : )
🙂
Very poignant and a bit creepy. 😊