|TFR Home Page||Contents||Prev. Page||Next Page||Comments|
By Rose McDonagh
Standing here on the moors,
I imagine them,
darkened faces turned
against the wind,
walking through light rain
with the scent of heather and wet earth
rising up around them,
and a baby crying
in a soft leather pouch
slung over someone’s shoulder.
And, when night slides in
on the backs of roosting birds,
I imagine them looking up to the sky
their eyes bright with fearful glints,
watching the sun setting red
like the heart of a fire,
and I imagine some of them are shivering
with a sense of the future
certain and heavy
as beating hooves.
© Copyright 1997, 2020, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007