Song For My Sister

My sister holds mud in her hands
yet the blue dawn sings,
the frail sound of lilac tears,
spring flourishing in her palm,
and falling to the ground
to be pecked at by the birds.

I wonder, will they take my sister
in their smooth, wooden beaks,
and fly her close to the sun?

She is fire,
burning the colour of the earth,
in her hands, a blood red burning,
the dusty seabed of Atlantis,
a broken teacup
forgotten in the corner,
razor blade eyes that mend the night
with earth and spit,
lone child of night
and day,
where water waits at the top of her head,
cracked feet that smooth
the contours of rocks, and grit,
and stars that lay hidden behind brittle clay,
with arms that are carved
and set in stone,
and softly blow hot ash from her fingertips.

I wonder, will they take her ashes
to the four corners of the earth?

In the slow distance,
a battered skin drum beat
drifts in the wind like a cross,
and splinters into blood and bone
whispers, that knit between
the lines of a melting horizon,
as the song of broken backed bison smile
and stare at the sun,
from a dry-eyed bed of fading grass,

I wonder, when it rains,
will they take my sister by the hand
and spin her round in circles?

A single tear would raise a rift
of spirit smoke,
a single tear would raise the earth,
but the rain man rattle is silent and sleeps
for a thousand dog-bitten years.

I wonder will she ever see the day,
when light runs in rivers
across the sky,
and golden dusk sheds its skin
and stands, barefooted, in the sea?

Burning, burning, burning,
a single tear burning,
a trace of hope dangling from the thread
of her ragged dress,
my sister holds mud in her hands,
yet the blue dawn sings.