This myth you make now,
this soup of old bones,
stretches like a necklace of islands strung out
over a watery grave, a garland of
ancestors, begging, pleading, healing.
And what you do now cascades up
and down your family line and stems
an evolutionary tide that washed up
waves of curses and vows, which put you
all, often violently, in your place.
Soon you too are gone. But first one question,
What will be your swansong?
Simon Heathcote