Dream
When I realised she was made of ash
and all of the talking, talking, talking. Not
the ash that consolidates about a sapling
but what remains after a fierce conflagration.
A black and grey ash that disperses
eventually breaking to a dust, rather than
the rich blood ash that burnt peat becomes.
When I realised she was made of ash
and waiting, waiting, waiting for some
words to stop her from breaking, I was
afraid that a touch would dry the river
or raise a flood, and understood that her
words would be a wind to raise the good
earth from the charred bones of the land.
