It must be time for another poem from our new Confluence anthology... And this time it's Rebecca, whose collection River is the Plural of Rain (isn't that a great title?) came out last year. The poem I've chosen is a favourite of mine (and I've also seen its various metamorphoses into this form), although it's not necessarily typical of Becky – whose style is again changing at the moment, as deeper darker threads creep in (and I think that's a strength). Becky lives on Dartmoor and the natural world is strongly reflected in her poetry. She works part-time with creative writing at Dartmoor Prison – superfluous to say that it's a challenging environment. Her first novel is coming out this autumn, with a Cinnamon Press award.
As usual, being copied and pasted it will probably be in a different type/size.
Afterlife
They buried their dead so high
the graves are specks on the cliff-face.
They imagined ancestors watching
over their comings and goings.
Fingers pointing upward they'd name
great-grandparents, sensors of daybreak's first impulse,
approaching weathers, who now voiced thoughts
in thunder, directed lightning, conducted stars.
Inside the crevices a puzzle of bronze bracelets, shell beads
circling what was clavicle, axe heads clinking on metatarsal.
To reach a geological hour all they had to do
was lie still, while rain seeped through limestone.
They buried their dead so high
the graves are specks on the cliff-face.
They imagined ancestors watching
over their comings and goings.
Fingers pointing upward they'd name
great-grandparents, sensors of daybreak's first impulse,
approaching weathers, who now voiced thoughts
in thunder, directed lightning, conducted stars.
Inside the crevices a puzzle of bronze bracelets, shell beads
circling what was clavicle, axe heads clinking on metatarsal.
To reach a geological hour all they had to do
was lie still, while rain seeped through limestone.
– Rebecca Gethin
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