Plias Mourner

The lately leaden anchor upon my head brings me slowly,
slowly,
closer, closer,
to the heart of the earth;
I sink into its dirt mirth,
with a fantasy of mired hopes always diverting the tryst of it.

Down there,
the dear divulging of the reverie of maudlin birth, a paganesque existence, clamouring beyond the barred bones of ancestors and inspirators. Ecce homo - quid est ergo tempus?

I wonder: do the bells ring belated after the last of the species is dust?
I am a woman, a grungling, bumbling, mumbling thing - I seek my mark no longer.
Here, the lovers carved on a tree,
here,
the boy buried a box with his cloves and dove feathers.
Predicted, they, no aerie silence as such will follow - did they lie in wait for my heart?
Yes, I'll apprehend their loresong, but my dear heart rends, it does, for the meagreness with which i'll offer their hallowed store a telling tale, to speak back to the spoken, ennui of my memory...

I lay in the dirt, patting upon two oval stones placed each equidistance apart, fitted under my hands and they sing forth a thick patta-patta-pat-pat-patta-patta-patta-pat-pat.

Achew a chew a new chew in this rough. Had I been a bird my life would be rife with this stuff. Swallow the slimey composter and take to the air - there's my flighty metaphor and I'll move it upon the wind - away!

No, that is not my fate.

I am not only belated, but late.
I wish to mince and pinch my skin, this rovermery chose de beau. A quandary ancient woman I'd much prefer be! Where the heights of authority lay in the fine command of a village, a knowledge of the seasons, in being a clever seamstress and weaponsmith. Here, to render a fire, commence this making - a young doe, noble jeune, too young - we must make balance with the earth - I keep the largest fire in my hearth, sing a solemn myth of the beginning and end and our promise for the present to keep.

I spoke to my heart to rise and there, before me, the afternoon sun strew its haze orange light across the yawning plain. Brulé, my back, dark and muddy my limbs. The key elements of a supplication lay upon my lips, but with the image alone -- nothing was rendered to the light. A strong, stuttered breath and I moved my body across the land. Grave, willowy waif.