madonna on the hill - prose

transcendence and connection, we are all one.

I wrote this piece in response to a prompt for a journal and have felt very attached to this idea of regeneration and nature as the beginning and end and all that there was for a very long time. x

there is a sheep on the hill with three heads,

pointing towards the sun,

clandestinely muttering hymns in an ancient language, all three smiles

innocent. . it perches on the daisies and dandelions, in a pool of scarlet hot blood.

her babies roll down covered in the heat of the beltane grass. fresh meat.

gleaming, on wobbling legs running as far as jupiter.

i think that there must have been so many three headed sheep

slaughtered to time.

woven in, then picked out of the eyes of lambs born after.

x

how children looked up to the sky that told of great mysteries for their mothers and the skies erupted before they even had a chance to roll down the grassy mound where i stand.

stone feet deeply intertwined with the roots

of that old oak tree and the molten sap and it runs down my back and into my nerves, settling there, building a home out of muddy sticks and cellophane.

my blood and her blood becoming one.

x

i told you,

the bones do not lie.

you and me and the sheep head make three.

linked by constellations of cold toast

and your purple knit jumper.

pardon me but i have always searched for more

in the fabric of time, ready to tear it open with my teeth until there

is nothing left in the seams.

x

we watched you go and a lamb cried out into twilight,

taking her veins with you, tied to your wrist.

last night, someone called your name and it was not me.

birth, death and destruction

cried out into the hollow mound and the hollow oak tree and

the hollow sheep head.

resurrected girl and the madonna reunite again.

hello goodbye

raven into the night.