By Lesley Mace
Teepees stand dark against a birch-white moon. Babies and ancients are silent, sleep-fast, tucked under weaved blankets behind tied flaps.
Bare-chested warriors move in unison; feather headdresses ripple in the wake of their dancing. Trees hold up the stars, and the stars spin until the fire burns low. Until it is time. Time to lead the almost-grown into their becoming.
The Wise Woman questions closely, divining their dreams. Picking through the litter of child-days, she intuits an animal-spirit and gives each youth a new name, a new beginning, a protection for life.
Sharp knives score inked skin: children, unflinching, become adults.
Wow. I can almost hear the drums. Great stuff. Wonderful imagery. Excellent.
Magnetic poetry. Great Jerry
What wonderful imagery, and such a lovely poetic feel to your prose.
‘Picking through the litter of child-days’ beautiful.
“weaved” to “woven”
I noticed the weaved to woven but didn’t think it was worth a comment as the remainder of the prose is just excellent x
But this is how we help make it better. Lesley Mace’s writing deserves our efforts. Bravo, Lesley.
Benita