"A four-year old speaks some ancient language"
"Ravens Hiding in a Shoe"
"Ravens Hiding in a Shoe"
We gasp to hear the boy.
What is he speaking? Old Norse? Hittite?
But don't we all speak an old tongue?
We cry the stroke of galleys in our dreams
sweat on our oars across a wine dark sea.
What is he speaking? Old Norse? Hittite?
But don't we all speak an old tongue?
We cry the stroke of galleys in our dreams
sweat on our oars across a wine dark sea.
The broom by my hearth
straw sewn brushy around the handle
speaks to my hand in an ancient's voice
Grandmother Broom.
The baby who looks across the room at me
from silent eyes, sees with the eye of the raven,
with the stillness of the deer.
When the pines close round us and the path is lost
something in us knows the way.
Trees have sprung up and boulders tumbled
but under the silt and the needles
a way we've walked.
Die and rise up, die and rise up
we and the deer and the child.
—Sarah Webb
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