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Flesh and Blood

by John Stocks

My ancestors, my flesh and blood,
Came from nowhere.
They have no voice,
Have left no mark.
No stories that speak of how
They left the soft folds of fields, meadows
To be buried deep underground, for generations.

Toiling in the heat and dust
As troglodytes, hacking
At smooth wet rocks, lead veins
As slippery as young Oysters
The colour of Mother’s milk.

They stand behind me now,
Moving awkwardly into the light,
Gazing into the mirror,
A smear of black dust
Rimmed above their eyes.

Briefly I step inside their skin,
Their consciousness.
The distant, immutable truths
Are locked in my encoding.
I make a transitory connection
With the passions of their lives.

Copyright © 2013 by John Stocks

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