Stone Story No. 1
What past hand has sketched the future
dark-red, drawings of a sky of trees?
Stars, the moon, petals, branches
in the snow. Rivers or veins.
Jet trails across a sky darkening to puce
as travellers head for the other side.
Our son, too, drawn
to another country, another culture,
settling down there. Planting
the garnet-coloured placentas
of his babies, his father-in-law
carrying them on a train
along faithful lines. Their deep-blood
buried inside that family's
ancient ground, under their own trees;
a magnolia, an olive.
Kay McKenzie Cooke