Cave walls speak art, tell time,
pose life-size beasts in action
but I would wish for human faces.
These artists chased fauna, held
model menagerie in their heads,
ran them around protected walls
to continue the sacred journey.
Cave walls won’t bear my leavings;
I don’t own a wall, or land…and
anything upright is bound to fall.
I’ll spread memories like catkins
on family trees, art and words
meandering into unknown custody.
Caves will await the new world.
Irene Cunningham’s recent publications: Picaroon, South Bank Poetry, I am not a Silent Poet, Riggwelter, The Lake, Shoreline of Infinity, Blue Nib, Strix. She thinks about the outside world but isn’t often there. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2019. http://ireneintheworld.wixsite.com/writer