Colchester County Crones

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?