On the horizon of every dream
a play of colour
glimmers soil
heaving like a new birth.
This is a land
navigated by the stars
word of mouth and tattered maps.
In her eighth decade
feeling first frost
like never before
some say
she should leave this rough country.
Letting the white opal lie
undisturbed in its thin crevice.
But she cannot forsake
these behemoths and mounds
needing more than ever
some kind of presence.
Not a god or white feathers
just the bones of him
shoulder to shoulder in the ground.
Her dream was a long one
scraping back layer after layer
of Bragan Bog
till she found
a vein of adularescence.
Pale as her dove become bone
only the bones of a dog.
In the end the years carried her away
keeping covered up
what may shudder hearts
far off in time.
Having a method
or way with them to feel
the fear of the youngest disappeared.