Ardmore Bay
Hearts may be harvested
at such a place, between
the sea and the dishevelled land
Where in a cove an otter carouses
in the kelp, ribboning
itself in glory.
Oblivious to us watchers
Celebrants from some other church.
Who with the grey cowled crows
sidle between black rocks scavenging
in shells that once were souls.
At the foot of heathered altars
rising ever skyward
crowned in gorse
stands proud
against the American wind.
While the sand, O, the sand,
Washed white, each grain
with its own story to tell.
Gathering
In our halls
Great stories are told,
Ale steeped from the well
Of souls is cherished.
While the fire lit by named
Ancestors in the book of our
Memory still burns,
Its smoke, snakes skywards
Through a throat in the roof.
And storytellers collect children
Like fruit to ripen in front of their tales.
While Gods are welcomed as friends
To the table steepled high with the harvest
That we, together, brought in.
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(Photo: Bob Shand/flickr.com/ CC BY-NC 2.0)
- Two Poems by Bernard Pearson - October 28, 2021