I heard them in the park.
After dark, two glass eyed women
like forgotten trees, waiting.
Through the silence their
voices sang, floating the hills
and swimming the valleys of my youth;
winding the worn out path
to me. I stood there,
for a moment, almost alone.
Thrust back to her voice.
To all of their voices. Those
women of steel
of copper,
of quilted pillows and quiet revolution,
whose laughs could tear a mountain down,
whose lightning almost certainly had.
In just a drop
of their quilted voice,
I could see the charcoaled skyline rise
and fall before me like lifetimes;
melodic and chaotic.
I walked on. Past those
almost forgotten fragments
of home.
Nia Griffiths, 2017
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N J Griffiths 