Its knobbled bones poke through,
worn down by wheel, foot, hoof.
Under the carpet, all but forgotten, the road to the kirk went this way once.
See along here,
carrying coffins, prayers, sins, song.
Age old rhythms far away now, faint, the edges of memory are brittled with age. Yet still the groove can cut the rug, crackling, spittling to life when the needle touches skin.
One two three, one two three,
dust rises and falls.
Settles again.
dominique cameron 