Poem of the Month

Swan Song in the Geissenklösterle Cave by Iris Anne Lewis


His fingers hold the bone

of my wing, carve holes.


Firelight flickers around rock walls.

He brings me to his mouth, gently blows.


Breath on bone flows.

Melody flutes through the cave.


Mute no longer, I sing.


From Black Bough: Deep Time, volume 1.

The White Horse of Uffington by Iris Anne Lewis


Ancient litanies, wind-thin,

whistle round the coombs

of Dragon Hill.

Antler picks, flint knives,

bronze-headed axes

cut and gouge the chalk.




In a half-remembered ritual,

men and women in

jeans and tee-shirts

gather and kneel.


Now tools of steel

hammer the chalk,

sculpt the goddess,

scour the horse.


From Black Bough: Deep Time 2