Monday, March 12, 2012

A visit from a shadow.

I was alone.
The swirling of the night
Beat upon me
Like a hurricane of silence.
In a moment of
Gravel rythym and humid goosbump response,
I was startled by the apparition
Of a blurry, distorted
Baptismal caravan of ankle-chained slaves
Singing the words to some spiritual
Born from the labor pains of oppression.
As one ghostly, glistening figure
Stopped to look me in the eye
I realized, our past never dies
But lives forever on this land,
In between the trees and fields
And baptismal rivers

see more like this at http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

8 comments:

  1. Beautiful. History is ingrained in land and the collective consciousness.

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  2. i agree...the past is all around us...fabulous magpie..x

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    Replies
    1. whew, nice...our past never dying...so true...and what a scene you capture...oppression def leds to those spirituals you know...

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  3. Loved it mate, eloquently dark.

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  4. I like the way you wove the spiritual aspect of baptism in...

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  5. A wonderful write - love it!

    Anna :o]

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