1. |
those we left behind
03:14
|
|||
|
take one and pass it down
sinking islands in a sea of blood
anchored by roots as old as time
across the years across a lifetime
across the isles to wash up on the shore
we’re smaller than the shadows we cast on broken ground
darling save your tears
for those we left behind
if i had change i’d light a candle
in the hope that it might bring you back
it never seems to work
just flickers in an empty church-hall
whispers from the nothingness within
ii wish i could speak to you but i don’t know what i’d say
i know you’ll be fine when i’m gone
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
An astral raiment descends
on our squeaking, piping neighbours
scattering now, plumes asunder and
breastplates mottling green-
in envy of their comrades
in Hispania.
Blue whoops, verdigris hollers
whip at the sunlight, throttled
from below as Latin scripts are chipped out
cast down by friends, the Selkies, cormorants
who want some glory.
That falls to those pale ones splayed in the streets
giddied by the life affirming howls
which stain their lips.
Them treaties, back to gibberish.
Parades of a different sort.
In newly lichened Eboracum
mummas heave their yung’uns clear
from pappas, slick with old John Barleycorn.
The local ones, their hairy
(all hair is foul to me
No matter what you
Have of it)
forearms ripple in the sun
their distant father.
Magnentius’ scraps are halfway home
though his skull be ground
for flour to that hungry empire.
Ach well, the script is new and bold
the red god in fury cast down
replaced with a corn dolly
bark husk and stem, all loveliness.
The offal-thick Ouse shifts
a quickening pulse down its chasm
I will slide my body faster, fitter
as the island god awakes her withered veins.
As indigent, I raise a cheer, an
Eel-cheer emblem on the moors.
Old bloodlines are remembering their tongue
And Lughanasadh lurks, soon to come…
|
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