In Our Own Image.
The old gods
were the lifeblood of our land,
the arteries.
The synapses that fired first consciousness.
They hunted, gathered, and turned the soil,
walked with us through life,
received us into death.
They had their moods,
their jealousies,
needed understanding,
needed wisdom, wiles, and sympathetic magic.
Then they needed to be thanked.
Like us.
We heard their voices in the waves
ululating
from cavern to deep cavern
reverberant.
Symphonies of wind and rain and silence.
Bird song.
Our gods spoke to us
as the world breathed
© carol argyris 2013
Published in Dawntreader 023 Indigo Dreams Publishing.
2 comments:
Have been reading your poems aloud to Dave. He loves them too and they benefit from speaking.
Cheers Gillian
Thank you both of you. At the writer's group we read our work aloud to each other and it does make a huge difference hearing it rather than just seeing it.
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