Lot’s Daughters Visit Their Mother
Each year we climbed to that place high above the ruins.
The first time, our almost-twins bundled in shawls,
we found her tall, unyielding, testament
to all those she had loved and known: kith, kin,
home: the cursed we left behind.
We leaned against the pillar of her.
Time passed, dawn mists bathed her in their tears,
wore runnels like the lines on our father’s weary face.
Our boys, her husband’s sons, too young to understand,
traced the shining grooves, sucked brine from little fingers.
No plants grew in the barren ground at her feet.
Winds harsh with dust from demolished cities
licked lascivious, hungry, honed her by degrees.
At sundown the last rays
lit her like a flame.
We held our growing sons close, precious as salt.
Rose Lennard lives, writes, walks and grows vegetables in Gloucestershire, where she seems to have put down roots. Her poems have been widely published in journals and anthologies, including Rattle, IS&T, Stand, Prole, Atrium, Phare and Quartet. Her nature art can be seen on Instagram as @gowildwithrose