Old Souls
Collecting old souls
scattered as tossed
chalk on the beach.
Rubbing shoulders
with blue flint stones.
Fragile, weather worn,
salt tears smoothed
between the wrinkles of
their hard knuckle skin.
Old souls.
They fit into my pocket,
along with hag stones
and waxed curls of raw wool
caught on the hills above the shore.
We were married once.
In another age.
In another lifetime.
You carried the can for the tribe.
Worn leader, chieftain,
fighting for glory,
fighting for gold,
left to die in the mud
of the cold battlefield.
My spells could not save you then.
Even though I wove them well,
I wove them for many.
I wove them into the leather
eagle and snake embossed
on the cross of your shield.
The salt spray licked your face
as you sailed in search of
the land which held your fate.
Your men, my brothers,
fell in the clag at your side.
The gates of the great halls opened,
and the falcons carried you home.
Old souls.
I pick them up
to remember the past,
or rather for it to
remember me.
Old souls.
I sing their songs
to the waves
where my blue eyes
change to purple,
as I remember
we came from the sea
and the giants that swim
there.
My dragon stole the eye
of your sun
to bring its light
home.
SCM July 2019