Antony Owen

Black Broken Water

Long ago she was shunned for her face written in the fields of fire.
she told them through her eyes that rivers still flowed on her bones
and her children would live again from acts of love not hatred.

She told me of all the pale daughters who bathed in her dark waters.
I have two red ghosts she said, they wanted to be human until fire.
She told me how flames can make ice sculptures of melting children
and black rain on bleached bone roads made unforgettable synthesis.

She told me of all the pale daughters buried under the parasol tree.
I had two red rivers she said, they wanted to be human until ghosts.
She told me how one day her daughters would meet like the estuaries
and pure rain would funnel through her wrinkles back to Hiroshima.

Late last night all the pale daughters swam to me in whale light and
in their furious burning I watched how candles blow out the wind
realising darkness is a black shoal of rain. I bathed in it one last time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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