SOUR GRAPES AND THE STONES | PART II: THE STONES
- Jun 26
- 1 min read
By Hannah Watkins
I see myself in their grain
Moulded into existence
Not by the hands of humans
They have been released from their steely confines
And they remain upright
They move in circles
Over the soft bodies of worms
Transmuting the decaying flesh, of sour grapes
And ungodly creatures
Into rich soil at the feet of mountains
Free to weave the liminal spaces between
No mortar holds my body bound
Stiff, pious men have no place inside me
And their words cannot touch me
I am met by the earth, in this place
The sun rises,
Over Threlkheld Knott
I lie on burnished September ground
The sun fades -
And the moon rises, as its equal.
I hear the metamorphic whispers
They have been where I am.
Finding their ways through glacial terrains
That have eroded them
Still, they remain upright
But I cannot.
And, as I relax my spine down through their embrace
Tasting the deliciousness, of my own full-bodied mortality
Sinking whole heartedly, and with no shame
I am relieved at the gentleness -
Of the stones
The sweetness of the earth, and it’s wine
Traversing my spine, to dance its sultry dance, on my tongue
The warmth and tenderness of the rains, washing at my feet
And the soft bodies of worms
Turning my own soft body
Into rich soil at the feet of mountains.