Sonja Besford

Ancestors

my silence
salutes heavy secrets of the dead
who withdrew from the visible world
to roam over fine mountains and
frighten hawks into reshaping the clouds;
i sometimes wonder if,
while tip-toeing in a fog of foreign rules
i lost sight of my ancestors' humorous
games in their outwitting
the quicksand of human mediocrity
which whistle to a tune named survival;
i often stroll
around the roundabout of doubts and insecurities
carving my affections in unforgettable words
like a master-butcher who picks-up and
re-assembles parts and tastes of good loves
and say, tonight there will be another party
for my ancestors accustomed to forgiving me