ancestors

Walking in Wales

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

It is strange to see the old branches there
Twisted with thorns on the hillsides, cloud swept
A hundred yards from the mountain peak
centuries cling together, cloud covered

We will follow the restless ravens flight
dark soaring darts as they pierce the hard rocks.
We were given a whole country to keep,
land is proof we insist on still living

The old harps, played in the far distant past,
Are memories dripping from hawthorn leaves
The moss covered seat is hedgerow hidden
Stone monument to old and wise story

I remembered all that I knew of you
As I followed the flow of the river
I’ll walk beside you over many paths,
though they will say you are not beside me

The Circle II

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Though we see their faces no more
those who have left us speak to us still
and always will. We hear their wise words,
when we are left far behind on the shore.
Recalled by the friends and family
and all who love them before
we can hear their voices speak in our hearts.
We do not part. They speak from our Ancestors halls.

Where one season ends another begins
as nature shows us again and again.
We pass through our spring and our summer
and the golden gathering time of the Fall.
Winter is not an endless cold season.
There is a journey ahead. No end at all.

The Bones They Talk (a terzanelle)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

in whispering voices, the bones, they talk
through the rolling curving lines of the land
they lead me gently, unconscious I walk

on the moss covered stones I rest my hand
to feel their quiet presence lingering there
through the rolling curving lines of the land

in the haunt of the fox, home of the hare,
where all is as it was before, I come
to feel their quiet presence lingering there

guided by moonlight, stones, spiral and sun
I walk the path of the ancestors bones
where all is as it was before, I come

to the place of the barrow, long dark homes,
with lasting respect for all that they knew
I walk the path of the ancestors bones

the stones they placed and the ancient ditches
where the blackthorn at dawn sparkles with dew
inform me still of their deepest wishes
with lasting respect for all that they knew

Reunion

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

after seven years
I still can’t believe
I wont ever see my father again

I still can’t believe
I wont see him again

this thought repeats and repeats
rolling circuits around in my brain
until it looses momentum
and comes to rest
like a roulette ball
in an unpredictable place

why am i even trying to imagine
I wont see him again
when all of my elders
as they grew older
told me we would

not one of us knows
until we go
I can think as I like
until then