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?