THE LAND OF STANDING STONES

I come from the land of standing stones
I come from the land of blue people

who tends to beneath the moon.
The last days of winter are drawing to a close,
what did they dream up?
What dreams dwelled within their hearts?
I am my grandmother's last hope, 

living in a cabin in the woods, 

an artist, and the rain coming down.
She always said It's a soft Irish day.

She, who bore eight children 

and a husband who who hid behind history 

compressed between the lines of the book.
And the whiskey soothed his troubled heart.
She wanted solitude more than anything else.

My mother chose the artist's path, 

but the jealous birds
called her unseasonably home. 

Tomorrow is the equinox,

the last days of winter,
the first days of spring.
My mother, not yet dead six months.
I am still searching for the appropriate path
to mourn her loss but the tangled web
of deceit and neglect is still too great.

I was a premature baby 

born at eight months.
They said I was a love child. 

As a euphemism for
she, who came too soon. 
Was I wanted? or a surprise?
My mother said I was wanted, I was loved.
Then she left me on the doorstep.

I carry my mother's name. 

I am the small one of the sea,
She always signed her letters, Jen 

instead of love, taken from the Chinese, 

it meant love, but more than love.
She was seeking answers 

other than what the family provided.
And left me behind, with my grandmother,
as she searched the city streets.

Once I was the Pictish dancer 

I dreamed of moonlight bathing each stone.
I turned into the whispering secrets of trees.
I became the pathway of the stars.

Sometimes I think I can remember
the thoughts of my ancestors, 

a turn of ankle, or phrase,
and it transports me.
I wish for more stories to find me.
I am always hungry for more.

A neighbor's boy child,
a child who is not my own,
but he has chosen me,
too is seeking the mother.
We sit on the couch eating snacks,
it's a rainy day, the wind is howling.

We each seek a solution
to our lost parentage. 

But so much genetic history
is mindlessly passed on, 

like generations of mayflies.

March 20 1995
rev. slightly 15/11/15