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