This land remembers
When it was swampland. The ocean came surging For my trees And trapped them underneath me. I incubated my children, Piled them high within my skin And sent them on a journey Away from me (Down they go, down they go). The weight of the world upon them, In my subcutaneous depths My children Are lost.
I blister and bubble, crack, explode. The lines on my hands have fractured. Old growth turns to new growth Turns to assumption, progression, Revolution! Industriously, my new infants Scratch and claw at my face With their fetal nails
Are you looking for your brothers Who were lost in time?
You will find them stony-faced and hardened, Blind ambition armed to poison my skin, poison my breath. Burn them and you’ll burn your bridges with me I’ll take all your anger and ignorance, But as you light my shroud, beware, The fire will singe your hands too.
My warnings were spurned and brothers burned. Riding off into the gates of hell, Only to look around and learn That a smouldering wasteland is not a home.
Black sheep returned to broken pastures To reclaim their mother from the dead. My grown children, they’re growing on me The green felt I once adorned. I awake to find their scarred hands in mine Reminding me who I am once more.