Singing Bone

Lucy, December 2021

Singing Bone

— by Lucy Hinton, winter 2021

Going in, going home

Naked as a Singing Bone

A deepening well, fertile as earth

A blackness that foreshadows birth

For in the darkness lives a light

That brings a different kind of sight

As winter nights grow cold and long

A holy warmth within grows strong

And forgetful to the outer world

An inner bud may now unfurl

In stillness, subtleties appear

Fine movements that become more clear

Inscriptions rise, and fall apart

Like flickering fragments of cave art

Strange and familiar, as if containing

Motifs, reminders of rich meaning

Hieroglyphs start to collect

Yet disperse if gazed upon direct

Winter’s thin light arrives slant-wise

And asks us to adjust our eyes

There are secrets we can only know

If we let them choose what they wish to show

A paradoxical accord returns

If mystery’s met on mystery’s terms

So let the images dance their orbit

Become the cave for art to inhabit

See if the glyphs translate to sound

Or wish to be planted in the ground

Converse with them, and dare to wonder

Are they part of you, or from yonder

We are like strata, made of layers

Joined together with ancient prayers

The human layer; a page within

A greater book of earthen kin

The walls do not turn out to be

Enough to keep out mystery

So when presences stir deep in you

Stay still and open, to listen true

You are an instrument of creation

A cosmological relation

A snuffling creature who contains

Whole universes of terrains

You are the naked Singing Bone

The one who’s called, and calls you home