Dig down there's roots to be disturbed, way back

pushing up through kitchen floor, smoke stained air,

tangled round these grafted hearts, ours and mine,

take their place in memories now lost to grave

stones, still, which sing of life and love and birth

the women’s tales which lie unwritten, wait.

 

Body, sodden, bent over with the weight

of seven children carried back-to-back.

Curled green leaves, new saplings brought to birth

branches stretch and twist, suck untasted air

whilst desiccated leaves cover tiny grave

and the wood of grief grows and waits for mine.

 

Life of labour, for men of field and mine.

Were days hectic, or did you have to wait

for life to wake up; journeys, dangers grave

across the border, scarcely looking back?

Or how many sons left that clean thin air?

How many more took final breath at birth?

 

I pull through records, days of death and birth,

panning for connection, gem from dark mine

evaporated, vanished into air

whole lives full, loves and passions, heavy weight

of gold, yet left as hooked to others, back

to wife and mother - name etched onto grave.

 

Now blackbird cantors high above that grave

where we now wander searching, linked by birth

to follow roots which lead me further back

to names which cannot share themselves with mine.

Mothers of blood, whose stories gave me birth,

who whisper words on bluebell scented air.

​

And what of you who failed to give an heir?

Who lie in lost abandoned rain-worn grave.

Do you sit still, in sweeter country wait,

for me to stumble on you? - date of birth

or death - and pin to tended tree of mine

which buds and blossoms, seeking a way back.

 

My running child, come back, to rest in dappled air.

See new stems marked, mine, growing out to grave

carve my date of birth, hold my hand, and wait.