The Dry Bones
I have seen the raising of the dead.
The wind called and the bones danced up,
out of the dry and dusty earth.
They had no form, forgot how to articulate,
but danced and whirled as the wind
danced and chaosed all around.
One valley over, there was no wind,
or else the bones there knew their place.
I heard them creaking and whispering
beneath the dusty earth,
hearing the wind music
and longing after all to join the dance.
Who calls the wind?
Who calls the step time for the dance?
Who shouts the whispered words
and sets the bones beating out that rhythm?
Standing at the valley’s head,
revelling in the chaos.
Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.
Amethyst Review 