Many Voiced Murmur

The crows are thrown from the hill like a handful of seeds
Sowing the sky with their cries
Early winter, before and after you

I carry their calls and fragments of a carcass
An offering, a device

Glowing flood pools puncture the black earth below
A slow woman, a slower girl

Peering down into that green world through my glass-white face
No roof, just walls and a sketch of a window
Buried hoards, crumpled by time, all collected

In my portable shrine: sheep’s teeth, belly up boats
Dusk rabbits
Too quick to see clearly

White pylon hairs pulled taut across dark fields
I am drawn further between
Grid points, like looking into a flower

I tongue the salt and grit left on my lips
Remembering the flickering kestrel as we stocked up on rocks

Me the stone-cracker, you the many-voiced murmur in the wind

 

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