Burial

What do they see?
The old ones, with mud on their legs
And flint in their hands and eyes,
Here above the green cathedral, in stone’s heaven,
Where ravens mourn the day
And pluck the eyes of the dead?
These mothers and grandfathers, buriers of chiefs and children:
What do they see? What sounds wash clean their thoughts,
Grind fear to colour their sleep?

They call the wind;
The sky spits thunder on their prayers;
It is the earth that answers.
Knotted clouds unstitch the sky’s skin,
Part to show the pregnant hills, the roots and sinews
Clinging to the forest’s bones.
In spring the brooks will summon seed, and foam
Through scented valleys, draw new life
From the land’s thighs.

Do long-forgotten gods still cling here,
A flaking crust weighing on the dead?
White nerves beneath the loam spark dull dreams
And the land changes shape and meaning.

What minds still stir here
With the seasons, sigh through the trees?
What thoughts still sway in winter’s wind,
And gaze beyond the torches towards the dawn?