Ancestors
I have forgotten the country in the North, where my people lived before me.
The stone walls curving over green hills; the air as pure as spirits could breathe in heaven, but much more cold.
The cry of the curlews, like a voice given to the sky; the dark bogs and the stones.
The brown streams, always talking to the lonely sheep.
My people before me had brown eyes like the streams, and bodies built to endure the battering wind like walls. And their forgotten faces, I think, were shy, resolved, and fresh.
They lived in stone houses, under the black-shadowing sycamores.
They knew the rent sky sweeping over the moors on stormy days, like passion in unspeaking hearts.
And I, in this protected house, breathing the hot air, I have forgotten that my people came from the North.
The stone walls curving over green hills; the air as pure as spirits could breathe in heaven, but much more cold.
The cry of the curlews, like a voice given to the sky; the dark bogs and the stones.
The brown streams, always talking to the lonely sheep.
My people before me had brown eyes like the streams, and bodies built to endure the battering wind like walls. And their forgotten faces, I think, were shy, resolved, and fresh.
They lived in stone houses, under the black-shadowing sycamores.
They knew the rent sky sweeping over the moors on stormy days, like passion in unspeaking hearts.
And I, in this protected house, breathing the hot air, I have forgotten that my people came from the North.
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