Monday, March 27, 2017

"In the Shadow of:" by Alifair Skebe

 "Onesquethaw you sing to me 
from the cold dark depths of your mountains shadow."

© Mark W. Ó Brien 2015

She sings. In the shadow of Onesquethaw Hill on a cold March morning. She sings. Through the dark shadow of a poplar tree. She sings. The somber notes of her mourning song. Shattered by the torrent, a ripple of a creek song. Under the water. Beside the bank. Inside the trees. She sings. 

Sunlight, a mother’s cheek,
soft downy rivulets, tears 
for her first born unborn

A woman there lives, and she lives in the water. On dark days, her face appears on the surface. We can hear her singing at night. In our beds. A slow song in another tongue. We go about our business. Her song is the land, the heart of the trees. She is a part of all of us, in the shadow of Cradleboard Hill. 

© Alifair Skebe 2017

"I hear  your voice calling to me from my back porch 

through the trees over the distance."

© Mark W. Ó Brien 2015


Alifair Skebe is author of the poetry collections Thin Matter“El Agua Es La Sangre de la Tierra” (written in English), and Postcards: Les Lettres d’Amour.  She teaches poetry and writing at the University at Albany. 

1 comment:

  1. Singing is what poets (should) do, in tears, in bed.