Stories told for generations carry
enunciated in tangled tongues
from four corners of Bretagne.
I lay in Iceni corn,
yet to ripen, their heads droop
as if straining to hear the secret
blown on the wind.
Bound and corseted beneath their
weeping bows, breathing in earth,
a scent of pregnant maturity,
encasing a moment
which disappears as quickly as it came.
Will I ever learn the lessons
coded within this alien language?
Or am I happy to lay here in blissful ignorance?
The corn shifts
its native roots in foreign soul,
a part of my history
joins with the breeze on its journey home.