Friday, July 29, 2011

The moult

At first it felt so good,
so exhilarating to be free
from the prison
of that cursed, confining shell.

I could breathe again,
sing,
even shout, expanding
my chest broad as rubber,

and I could twist
front to back, loose and lithe.

But slowly I became lost,
forgetful of who I was
and there was just that hollow
feeling that comes with twilight,
the cooler nights
and voices distant,
but nobody close.

My limbs slowed
and I sought out a rock,
or some safe refuge to salt
my soft new bones.

Rachel Westfall
July 29, 2011

3 comments:

Rob-bear said...

Snake again? More shape-shifting? Has Bear landed in a Celtic nation?

RachelW said...

Aha, Bear, maybe that's it!

christopher said...

The Old Celt's Dream

In the high branches
of the oak a mistletoe
signals my divine
presence, my shifting
sighs of whispered chant, seven
times around the tree
I call out to you
by rote, by my heat, voiceless
though I am.

I hold
through this murdered day,
hold by the strings on my heart,
and clans of ravens.