The Washer at the Ford by Yvonne Aburrow
The rocks glimmer in the moonlight, and she heaves
the dripping shroud from out the dark waters
of the ford. This is she who weaves
the destinies of men on her loom of shining threads.
Black is the night and hung with stars;
red the moon burns with an uncanny light;
white are the bones under the mound;
green are the wtaers, luminescent and cold.
Beating the garments of death on a stone, she sings
of the river of life, flowing from her womb
and bids us live for the moment
with the consciousness of a warrior.
Oh crow that wheels and cries over the battlefield,
who sees the destinies of men laid out
under the fiery eye of the sun:
cover me with your black and terrible wings.