Weave the willow strands into ribbons
and thread them among the standing stones.
Crush the charcoal in your hands and paint,
stag and storm and sunken well.
Remake the sky,
in shades of sable and shadow,
and etch your name hidden deep in the bottom of the rocks;
the scorpions will guard it…
Leave agates in the falcon’s nests and rose petals near the brambles,
as payment for your memories,
and in gratitude for a new purse full of tales.
Fill your mouth with pebbles and
whisper to the waves rocking against the shore,
of monsters with eyes of shell and pearl and seagrass,
and the turtle-eyed folk who loved them…
and watch the swell foam opalline around your feet as they wash back to hear the rest of the story.
Rest in the cradle of moon and morning,
in the changing of the stars,
and write your name in the sand before you leave,
so the shores can carry it away,
washing up on new coasts before you,
as you climb the distant cliffs…