The Folken

Island Burial

Even the perpetual lullaby of the wind refused to visit that day.
Instead, fog pushed ashore, a mantilla for the village, a caul for the trees.

The dreams I’d brought with me to the new world went unrealised.
As my shroud is lowered into the ground, a gull lands, stealing off with the coins on my eyes.

For a moment nothing moved.
For a moment nothing breathed.
And, for a moment, the Old Country waited.

The Oldest Recipe

A creeping twilight pressed down across the copse.
The saprophytic tumuli waited.
Someone would be along.

Abroad too late to see properly in the gloaming – or too late in remembering the townsfolk’s admonishments to avoid Maw Woods.

And here he comes, Johnny City-Boy, long after curfew, country ale curdling in his belly as he staggers home.
Furtive, seeking roots tumble over themselves, whispering, and deep within each tumulus, ancient stomach acids bubble in anticipation.