Her soul was water flowing bright.
Her soul was seeping through the marsh.
Her soul was mist in morning light.
Her soul was surf on shingle beach.
The men believed she had no soul.
They spoke her, wrote her, sold their tales.
They choked the water, dammed and stole.
They tried to fix her into deals.
Her song was creeping through their homes.
Her song was undermining pasts.
Her song was eating at their bones.
Her song was first, her song was last.
The men believed in distant souls.
They didn’t hear her song as theirs.