The clock ticks are getting louder
Silence disturbs me more than anything
Almost six and I only think about her
And that lullaby only she could sing

How can I sleep on these wet pillows?
Memories were supposed to heal the aches
The never ending fire from your innocent bellows
PAIN is the only term for the sound it makes

.
On the old porch outside her room
she sits a'spinning on her loom,
weaving memories of times long gone,
gently singing a Native song.
Of rivers running on the plains
swollen from the mountain rains,
of the deserts endless sands,
and of toil with calloused hands.
She sang of buffalo and of bear,
of a paradise for all to share,
she also sang of the forests deep
and of where wolves go to sleep.
Her song dies away like a friend
when her spinning is at its end.
The Great Mother retires in silent gloom
and snuffs out the candles in her room.
Thus stilling the night of a Woman's Moon.



© Pagan Paul (28/01/19)