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
Somewhere Else Writers Group 