Plias Mourner

(this is a revision of an earlier post)

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 flower 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 O! My dear heart rends
for the meagreness with which I'll offer their hallowed store a telling tale,
to speak back to the spoken, ennui of my memory...

She lay in the dirt, patting upon two oval stones placed each equidistance apart, fitted under her 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 slimy 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 roving belle chose!
A quandary ancient woman I'd much prefer be!
Where the heights of authority lay in the fine command of a village,
in having a knowledge of the seasons,
in being a clever seamstress and weaponsmith.
Here, to render a fire,
commence this making - a feast worthy of Greek bards to sing of!
Take the young doe, noble jeune,
Ah, but too young - I stop the ceremony
"We must make balance with the earth!"
A cheer swoons round, and we move to my abode
where the stories are told:
I keep the largest fire in my hearth,
And sing a solemn myth of the beginning and end and our promise for the present to keep.

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