Eleanor Stewart-Middlebrow.mag
The Grave
My mother lies in the hillside beneath the long grass
Undiscovered, with no mark of the match lit past
Only known by the sheep with the iron-dark eyes
Moving over rough heather and mounds in their tribes.
When she died
No one watched
But the low, ticking clock.
And we all left her bones on the hills
When she died
We walked down to the car park and none of us cried.
How I wish I could rumble with the bracken-burnt sheep
Over scarred earth lain raw like old wounds and old meat
Away from the grave that lies in the heath
To the higher hills where the wind-worn find peace
But mama is always under my feet.
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