A shrine carved
from rock, her face –
now flesh molded by wind,
by years –
still worthy of worship,
eyes upon
her war, upon yours,
her martial song
is the wind that carves…
(skin of night,
lean cheek,
flinted eyes,
blood-filled lips parting)
the last time…
she only moaned that song –
and then
sighed, quieter still,
a fading groan,
then…
silence.
now it’s intermittent jazz,
wild like John Zorn,
which blasts
moves
fades and returns,
wilder still,
and the blasts leave me
desperate
for more, for
shouted words,
from this
dismissive love,
that heart…
(what birthed you,
what formed you –
are you Roman, then, Britain –
something else, darker eyed…
ancient soul
…lands owed to you in Viroconium
by some old hill fort fling… what
history birthed you?)
Your river murmurs beneath you
…Dee… who conquered
the conquerors,
Deva Victrix
made
for goddesses
foreign and familiar.
I hear your song,
in these moments of clarity
spread across the nodes between us –
flowing like water across transatlantic cables,
from ancient, holy shores.
Writer Moe 