Memories in dirt trod places An ache of something soul wired Screeching across field and foe The rankling of oppressive chains Ripped and charred Once a story learned by rote No longer spoken but on the wind Only the memories we carry Claws in the darkness, teeth biting, Burn it all to ash and starch the bones Sing to them, sing for them, bleed into them, All those forgotten souls, honourable, wise, less so Death is not a quiet whisper A story is not a silent thing confined to rotten tomes It is alive in the tendons In the bone of people Singing out from the vein Painted in every colour, every harmony From wrathful rage to quietest hope. See once more with Crow sight A world apart, growing, yearning, dying, As Guardian of Death She is ever watchful All knowing Still growing Cawing in the Darkness, reminding, Reclaiming Remember who you are Not who you were in distant times But battle frenzied, blood clotted, sweating, aching in the act of living And dying
– Joanne Morris 2017 All my own work all rights reserved