Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

A Recalling Tongue

Rain drags words out of a dark sky.
Words raw enough to grow antlers,
lightsome enough to slip between
parting flesh,
unmade words grown
from mouse ears and the stringy lips
of hollow reeds.  
A long untrammeled Celtic rivering
unabridged and uttered sheer.

If I croon a cobbled nursery hymn 
then that blank meaningless verse
might transmute into the ancient rattle
of pebbles on a Scottish beach,
or a seagulls blare from a bobbing coracle.

Something frail and Irish stumbles by,
size it up, seize it, snare it,
unlatch its tenuous tones, the lull and hum,
let it rest between harboring cheeks
recall itself through the hollow bones 
of the fierce and fallen.

I cannot understand languages,
not broken languages and their scrabble
their luggage was ever too heavy on my tongue,
but Gaelic is a raptor in my blood
or a cuckoo born 
in a ten thousand year old nest.

Here in the flood of a singing rain,
I could be damaged enough 
to be what I seek,
then perhaps faraway mountains
would haunt no more.

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