Exiled Clay

  • John Donahue

I am not sure you
live anywhere, no
cord of clay holds
you moored.

The air is brittle
and cannot settle
near your attention.

Your cell has
no cloister for
abandon anoints you.

To what place
belongs the red bush
of your blood?

Who could travel
your mountains of dream,
glimpse gazelles
limp towards dawn,
see flowers
thirst through earth
for dew,
and hear at last
the sound
of swans’ wings
bless the dark?

Reposted from https://sharonblackie.net/staying-when-times-get-tough/

About Makere

A transplanted New Zealand Scots/Maori academic/grandmother/random singer and sometime activist, my life is shaped by a deep conviction of the necessity for active critical engagement in the multi-faceted global and local crises of being and survival of species that confront us in the 21st century, the urgency of re-visioning the meaning of thriving together, and the contribution of Indigenous knowledge systems to a truly sustainable and just global society.
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