deepundergroundpoetry.com

May Flower

The May flower

I lay
within a bed of rotting leaves, earthworms and woodlouse
and dream of the Northeastern woodlands,  
skin darker than mine, bodies tricked into trade,  
pines, and cones and needles,
songs to hollow spirit,
of drums, drummers, fires and decay,
of earth, remedy and magic,
and, of course, you.
 
"Connucke fommona,"
words blow through wood smoke
stain lips and lids,
caught as a juxtaposition against moonlight.
 
I lay
nude, swollen and white, casting shadows upon silver birches,
textured with the peelings of youth. I nest  
in burrows when rain falls
taken in by charged badgers and damned foxes
on my own earth, on my own soil, in my own time, here in England with my English tongue  
forged by old manners, stubborness and five second sorrys.
I am the May flower,
born on the rise of Spring,  
and as seasons roll
I dieback,  
sink into Plymouthian wetness and Winter,  
feel the roots of my being freeze in the damp, shortened light,
pale versions of history.

Swallow the details
of pillage and pilgrims,
and prepare to sail again
into sunlight - into unknown.
 
"Appepes naw aug."
words were
sharpened upon arrow and bow,  
waxed on a warm morne  
echoed by the foreign, unforgotten Wampanoag.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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