My fingers weave a rug for my ancestors; The ones who stole scraps from factory floors In clock-faced brick mills in treeless towns. Who heard meadow grasses whispering in golden snippets Snatched up the blue-green lilt of bracken tracks in dusken hills And, feeling the warmth of old stone in ochre swatches, Wove them all in, so the children warmed their feet And remembered that once they ran free. My fingers weave a rug for my sisters; Women who sing with buzzards and drum to the North. Who travel out on dog sleds to ice floes where worlds end To gather songs of snow and blood and bone, and Carry them back, and gather us in, and sing them for us By a hearth so warm and bright that the ice starts to thaw And wilder melodies flow back in amidst the Meltwater; the tears of homecoming. My fingers weave a rug for my sisters and brothers; Those who step into the flames, and use the Kindling of their guilt to spark the flame of their innocence. Who torch their shame on a bonfire of wild abandon So fierce, that the inferno of expansion burns All their fear away, so only love remains. I weave them Waves of Bliss to remind them, Reflecting their infinite waves. My fingers shred the shirts my brothers wore Through their night sweats, and slice up the Cheap cotton of dying lakes and exhausted soils. Untangle acid wools from mountain deserts, And weave them all into a rug so strong, And so soft, that it holds newly birthing worlds While my voice and tender heart sing along To all of our freedom songs. September 2017
Blood is flowing out,
As a meander, in the thing, slips back in.
Walls of grief like weather fronts
Have battered this island for days,
Named storms, like Britain’s;
Tearing at the social fabric, from within actually
Because we’ve forgotten personal sovereignty
Our language craving creativity
As we buy leave, like our leaven
With our anxiety.
And battles are STILL being fought in this body.
The wars are being waged IN my body;
A ravaged body
May seem like collateral, but is the endgame,
Did you know? Until they’re still,
Until Rome has come, and gone, again,
And prophets have ceased their howling,
What chance to even hear their own truth?
This moon glancing cool across desert growing
Whispers: ‘Quieten children, liSSSSten…’
Blood is flowing out,
As a meander in the thing, slides back in.
And I wanted to show you how I pray
But I was sobbing in the corner;
A no with which I’m creating space for a thousand
More joys in a bigger YES!
Til then I’m battening down:
Let my winds howl, like the wild things
Across the craters, that will form the lakes
From which will birth our tomorrows.
2015, Hard Rain