by Devon Balwit
The grave ship at Sutton Hoo hove east to west,
from then to another then, treasure-laden + mysterious.
All that remained of its navigator is fretwork,
golden bosses + clasps. We diggers are left
to guess what one must accomplish
to be buried with such a ransom, vaulted
beneath stars + meadow vetch.
Even its tillerman had to release it, returned
to calcium + phosphate, his hoard
itemized + vacuum-glassed.
The grave ship at Sutton Hoo hove east to west,
bearing its glittering trove beneath
cow dung + the bodies of furtive lovers
while power, restless above, moved on.
Close your eyes with the dead in their ghostship.
Imagine yourself a shovel-blade of wonder.
About the Author:
When not making art, Devon Balwit walks in all weather and edits for Asimov and Stripe Press and Asterisk and Works in Progress Magazine. For more of her work, visit: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet