Sunday, December 27, 2009


I was there, when men squatted on haunches
to chip flint and weave webs of belief
from seasons and circles of death and growth.
The stink of boar-grease stiffening my braid
and blue whorls whispering under my skin
offered hope that darkness could end.

I put on homespun robes and tonsured my head
to walk the years when dogma stalked faith;
smoothing old ways and old faces to new shapes,
nudging builders to find safe spaces in stone arches.
Heedless of changed names for the turns of the year,
I watched the ploughman bury cakes for first cut,
crooned the song of seasons round to seed-time.

I’ve paced the years’ life and I am still here to die
ever again. Hide me beneath plastic and tinsel,
dress me in red, fatten my cheeks, disinfect my story;
the scent of old circles clings to the shade of man.


Blogger Olive Tree Guitar Ensemble said...

Hi, it's a very great blog.
I could tell how much efforts you've taken on it.
Keep doing!


3:49 am  
Blogger Pat said...

Beautiful, Angela!


4:53 pm  
Blogger Caratacus said...

Oh, this is RATHER nice work Angela. It hits so many buttons for me. First rate!


10:08 pm  
Blogger Angela France said...

Thank you! I'm delighted that yo like it


8:52 pm  
Blogger Angela France said...

that should have been 'you' not 'yo' :)


8:53 pm  

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