Image for post
Image for post
FLowers over graves, Christyl Rivers

Great Grandmothers gathering grass,
Ancient, ages past, eroding crones
Sing to your future, my present, please,
On flutes of your now hollowed bones

Let your resilience be a balm to soothe,
Your songs tendril to me in dreams,|
Let every strand of sage knowing, move,
Lull me into enchanted, timeless, streams

Of old crones, not so much, did mother say
And yet, I know sound grace, and steel,
Somehow seeps hope into shared DNA,
Sung notes on season’s whirling reel

Ancestry sighs a quiet canticle
Unseen in daily trembling, treble,
Dead voices stir in dreamtime’s whir
And I awake, an avenging rebel.

Did you, too, invoke past legacies?
Colchester County Crones, young as maids?
Chorus the future from hexed melodies?
Necromance, dream future music, played?

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store