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.