A Raven Called

From The Wintered Womb

Underneath the thrice ploughed, fertile, fallow field
Impregnated within a wintered, woven, womb
Of richly composted humus
I lay seeking sustenance, nourishment from
The oxygen filled wintered mist that
Drizzles, seeping, replenishing the amniotic fluids
That trickles through the membranous umbilical cord
Fertilizing, greening,
Ensuring a bountiful spring harvest.

I have lain, crumpled, in a fetal position, within a carefully woven wintered womb for a long time now.

Consecutive losses so effectively silenced me that even my muse despaired and took herself off. So absorbed in loss was I that I confess I didn’t notice that she was gone.

Then, this week, a raven came and talked to me as I bought the first possessions to the house I am having renovated. It sat on the fence and pranced and talked and told me, as only a raven can, that my muse had not really abandoned me, but that she is living deep within Lemuria.

It took me many days to really comprehend that it was time for me to pack and go to find her.

All I carry with me is my old copy of Hesiod with a Hymn to the muse marked in readiness for me to sing when I find her abode and stand outside the window wooing her, encouraging her to let me come inside.

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