The green cocoon of the field
Carried dew to my eyes yesterday,
To my hips and thighs.
Was I wandering into some jealous grip
Of the One whose cloak and staff
Brings me comfort?
On days like these,
When the sinews of life’s effort,
That infernal reach for freedom,
Seem set loose, like blowing chaff
On the tail of the wind,
I find also the weight of its mantle;
Not a burden of much comfort, only flames.
Meanwhile ancestry calls; deep tones
From the blue shadows of the grass.
And the quenching tears roll;
Quiet waters on a distant hill.
I cannot look up – not yet;
Gaze is stitched to the pathway,
Shepherd following scent of lost lamb.
I become, quietly, the green woman;
Jealous for life, to touch it’s seam.
Limbs sink and rise into her colour;
Youthful hope re-enters my bones.
One day we will lie in such pastures,
And its grasses and leaves will cover us.
I now see,
I shall not