Dust

 

At evening, as the fires lit

The hillsides with their gathered glow

And told their stories to the stars,

She ate her bread with curds and figs,

 

And stared off through the olive groves

And out towards the distant sea:

The salt of land upon her tongue,

The memories of her journeys done.

 

This land was never hers to taste.

The burning herbs, which spat and danced

And filled the sky with resin smoke,

Would blow as dust before the dawn,

 

When she would take the northern road,

And leave these hillsides’ burning lights.

 

Transhumance

 

Above the tree line of the soul,

Where air is thin and minds can float,

She sparks her memory, speaks her loss.

She moves through pastures draped in blooms.

 

And there she lives her ghostly life,

She watches shadows cast on clouds

Which gather on the valley floor.

She knows the turn and flow of things.

 

But further up, beyond her gaze,

The bells of cattle ring the peaks,

The gentians stain the petaled sky,

The crystals carve the rainbow’s curve.

 

Her soul awaits the season’s change,

With buttermilk and waterfalls.

 

Stepping Out

 

The dress was blue and never aged.

She dropped it on and felt its cool

The same as on the autumn day

She bought the dress, without his say,

 

Her week revolved around these streets:

Her home, her walk, her week of work,

The wall which held a wagtail’s nest,

The ruts on pavements, worn by years.

 

She passed his parent’s former house:

The new folk kept the garden neat.

She passed the chapel, then the pub.

She felt the village watch her walk.

 

He never said he liked the dress:

Or if he did, she didn’t hear.

 

The Shepherdess

 

Beneath a sky of stars and moths

She trails her light through olive groves.

And silences the nightingales.

The stars are stilled, the moon is dimmed.

 

Her breathing draws the warmth from earth,

Her feet float soft as owl’s wings,

She leaves no trace, she makes no mark:

This is her world, this is her night

 

She walks amongst her sleeping flock:

They twitch and flick, but barely move.

They trust her, breathe as one with her,

She guides their dreams to mountain pasts.

 

She is the shepherdess of souls,

Across the streams of Epirus.

 

First Born

 

Before the writing on the rock,

Had scratched the miracles away,

Before the clay had stamped its songs,

Before creation raised the seas,

 

Before the ignorance of Greece,

Before Tibetan chants of death,

Before the worthless wars of Rome,

Before the Dreamtime thought to dream.

 

A child began its cry for life,

Like every other cry at night.

Her cries rebounded through the hills,

And echoed up beyond the skies.

 

Her father had a cheating mind.

Her mother screamed and broke the ground.

 

The Knowledge

 

A nettle soaked could set a curd,

And burrs could wrap the butter pack.

A copper pan could spoil the taste.

For sixty years she’d made these notes.

 

The life within, the voice without,

The cream and structure, rind and heart,

The village and its changeless ways:

For sixty years she rose above.

 

The young she helped and coaxed on through

The mysteries, rituals, places, times –

Between the ageing racks and shelves –

For sixty years, traversed the gaps.

 

Her hands are supple, soft and strong:

They play her secrets like a song.

 

 

 

The Next in Line

 

She waited for the perfect age,

When all the edges fell away,

And language came to mean much more

Than angry taunts and lines in sand.

 

She waited for the smile to grow

Into a subtle arch of peace,

Until the skin had formed and filled,

Until the dresses calmed and flowed.

 

She waited, as she always did,

And when she moved it made such sense:

Her daughter would begin to learn

The secret silences she’d borne.

 

And so began her long decline,

And so began her future’s rise.

 

The Silent Keeper

 

She held her breath and life whirled round:

It blasted, blew and buffeted,

But somehow, silent, she stood still,

As if untouched, she stayed her voice.

 

Within, she held the secret tales,

And slow, she acted out their ways,

And slow, she carried on the lives,

Of all the slow and silent ones.

 

And all the rest just passed her by,

Ignored her quiet, hopeful words.

They lived so quick they barely lived.

They spoke so fast they made no sense.

 

When she breathed out, all history bent,

But no-one saw their world whirl round.

 

Her Lineage

 

Her warmth was bundled up with tales,

Her knowledge flowed on through the years,

The gentle heat, the milk and sweet,

The alchemy of cultured thought.

 

And in each bite, a crunch of salt,

The memories of mountain peaks.

From ninety generations formed:

A slight and sliver, ash and heart.

 

With such pride she gave her love,

With each remembered trick and tip.

On every drying shelf a tale,

Another history of grace.

 

She carried secrets to her grave.

She took off much, but left her soul.