White bones silvering in the earth.
Dew distorting lenses settle in eye sockets
Like globules of melted glass.
Gone are the memories of rabbit blood,
The sharp crunch of bone,
The sweet taste of marrow on the tongue.
Months within the Mother’s womb
Of warm earth, maggots, wood lice
And the gentle transforming mercury of slugs,
Have done their work.
I am awake now,
Hearing the call of the white ghost, the soul leader,
From the bosom of the May tree.
I follow her silent wings across the silver grass.
I will howl at the plump bellied moon
And live again in the tricksy night dreams of men.
© Elen Sentier 2012: all rights reserved.