We entered the moors as the ghosts of our grandmothers
so great we had forgotten their names.
Still, the years could not remove the
magic from our bones –
the sharp of an elbow twisting firm the
knife up and through.
Oh, it was the same moon in the sky,
only smaller,
held between our chanting teeth.
It seemed we were not only the wives of
men brought back again,
but animals – our hair raised electric on
the wind – our mouth snarling blood again.
Free in the moors, like our mothers in
the moors, and their mothers before them
– howling.


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