First People

I see in the eye of my sister,
her hair wrapped with seaweed
and the flagstone shore we are walking;
The songs of first people
her skin is singing.

I see in the eye of the needle
the hawthorn fish hook,
the hollow in the spindle wood
the spungham and moons blood;
the fingers, ebony and ochre
of first people.
The hazel tree is laughing.

And the bent backwards blackthorn
slow and sloe collapsing.
The berries and shilleleagh
The tick tack tapping of the
suck on the shore of smooth stoney
cove
clacked by the tide retracting.
First people chitter chattering.

I hear in the caverns of sky
and lilac heights of
rock left behind
When the steppes fell down
the mountainside
and I listen
to the folds or wrinkle
beneath the ears of my elders
and in the spiral on the perriwinkle
The words of first people.

And by an Bó Bheannaithe
I smell her breath at night
dragging the starry plough
across the world’s
reflections
decanting divinities connection
and
unearthing
the Síog stories
the gods beyond the allegory
the mirrors for
first people.

In the grikes between
the flats
we catch
the flash
of orchids and of sprats
As the fertility of scars
shines out to
us between the cracks.
And I hear the healing chants
claps and whistles
the soles and souls that dance
with first people.

And I ask the trees
the streams
and mountains
that if it is that we would
surrender to their wisdom
and dance within their rhythms
and stop battering
bartering
for cash
to clash with them
and turn the cracks to schisms
That we can receive the truth of what we’ve been given
And be first peoples again
And accept what this land isn’t
and learn from our past,
be present
protective
and honour her provision.

Oh land that kept my ancestors
Let my grandchildren
hear the hazel tree when she is laughing
and feel the red fox through the briars
blazing
let them plait my hair
grown grey
and notice the stones we sit on matching
Let them live and dance as first people
and sing the songs and stories
everlasting