The deceased are buried vertically, the hills so steep. The only flat is the small quay and the mine entrances. When the mud collapsed the deep shafts they realized they had gone too far; the trees felled for tunnels and houses and fire. A cry all along the ridge lines, a moan which sent the seals offshore, a fatal piercing of an old God’s heart, an eerie resonance of betrayal.
The government frigate loaded what was left of us. My grandparents held me between them, backs to our home. A sailor winked at me and thought better of it, turning to the task of deck stacking. No one looked behind. The ship leaned away, but I could hear our horse calling, rolling, rubbing his back on the stones beach side. The island was alone again, almost.
It had become more and more so. The gold was never there. The interred outnumbered the living. The Antarctic gales tore down the soil, a saturating rain began, exposing the dead to a world they had left. Upright they faced the west, bleaching, the wind giving whistling song to their ribs, a voice which knew no end. Cleansed, they shone into each evening, glaring.
It was never worth tuppence people said, and no one stops there against the music. Yet I remember, because I twisted around from an elder’s hand grip, to witness the sun set on the once faces staring out into the world, a choir clear above the sea mist call an end to day. We rub the red earth into our hands here, to keep our flesh intact from that mortal melody.
James Walton Poetry 