Mantra Poem by Sheena Blackhall

I counted the prune stones round my plate
Put my ear to the empty shell
Om, I said, where the ghosts hang out
Rattling my beads, to a Buddhist spell

In another country, families pray
To another god, in another way
Their scapegoats bleed on the scapegoat tree
On the moral high-ground, gibbets sway

Into the box we all must go
Just as our kinsmen did before
The consequences of fate and time
The creaking hinge and the fatal door

The branch of silence is thick with seed
Tomorrow's language will bloom with words
The tongues of children yet unborn
Will sing the praises of unknown lords

The birds that sing in your white rib cage
Fly away when you hit the grave
So open your throat, let the notes soar high
Sing out loudly and sing out brave

Dance then, widdershins, stir the pot
Don't dare stop, or your feet will rot
Each day is a prayer for you to speak
Your heart and your rhythm are all you've got