Blodeuweddby Bill Lewis |
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Both ninth wave and ninth particle, I am a quantam mechanic of flowers and feathers. I am made negative or positive by the politics of fashion. My thighs are Bronze Age riddles that whisper as I walk at a pitch only lovers and poets perceive. Like a warning of seven notches cut into bark, I am a duality of alphabets in constant flight and flux, tree-ogham /bird-ogham bird-ogham /tree-ogham. Sap sings in my belly, warm as a nest full of down. I Blodeuwedd am clothed in the long memory of the bluebells on a dawn grey as owl pellets when men and women embrace trees to protect them from bulldozers and earth movers. 
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