Wind kissed are my tumuli.
Wet mud sucks the iron spade.
Anoint this nub of my flesh
for it is the hub of my wheel.
It is the polar axis of the,
spinning palace of the year.
Caress this crevice of clay
with agriculture and archangels.
Rub the plough with fennel and
incense, hallowed soap and salt.
Ride me with hobby horses and
dig me with the archaeology of
your rain drenched desire.
Furrow me with antler picks.
Sow me with semen of light,
the oyster ejaculations of dawn,
caught in a linen apron.
I pull back the moss-moist labia
and you see the winter is pregnant
with the spring and spring has
summer curled fetal in her womb.
And inside summer, autumn waits
dreaming in golden hibernation.
About the Author: Bill Lewis is a writer, artist, teacher, and performance artists from Kent, England.
Copyright © 1996 by Bill Lewis. The poem first appeared in The Wine of Connecting, published by Lazerwolf Press. It may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.