by Robyn Curtis
I head for the gravestone edge
over broad-shouldered hills that hug
the sling of the valley below.
past a carcass washed-boned,
a whorl of sheep's wool on wire
past incipient bilberry, pink and raw
I strike out for base-rock; I want to lie
on autumn-warm slabs
before the purple heather darkens
with slick rivulets
of peat-brown age
and crows pick over my white bones;
a corkscrew thorn drills the earth
a handhold, a crook for a pilgrim
climbing into the sky.
And when at last I lie, pressed
against sun-kindled granite,
I will know
I have been something after all -
one who can keep the darkness warm
and still ride the lark's phrases.