by Laura Hemmington
A crow circles the charnel house, throwing wing-shadows through broken windows. They land on walls unseen. You catch your coat and draw in – it’s close, All Souls. Take a minute, then – no, take more – to grasp at the wanderers in the limestone air. And mull upon the soul that dwells beside your bones. What is its nature, the resident of your physical time?
Tonight, smoke and air entreats you – the flesh, bones and braun – to wait no more. Decay abounds, they know; life sunk low into the clod. Rotting, festering, until finally still, when the ground is hardened once more. Cycling, to new.
A crow circles the charnel house, and understands this better than you. The caretaker, bone-cleaner, spearer of shining waste. The earth is cleansed. A nest grows from the trash you left. Steady, wind-breaking, winter-ready. Life-ready. Eyes of pooled obsidian to take you in. Some say she is a carrier of souls. Perhaps. A caretaker; most definitely. Ignite your soul, before it takes leave of you. Fortify it, sweep it clean; let it not be undersold. Perceive it, shape it, and see it all: it is yours alone, ember to flame.