The heat and fossilisation of cultures, compressed. We all have roots, and hold what we dig up as artefacts of the past. Sometimes we know more about the people who ‘find’ us, than they know about us. After all, I was born five years later.


Thrown in, fire enhanced,

Scented and melting at two hundred degrees,

Trickling amongst the roots and

Sinuous on the burning branches of trees,

You tell your tales and pan for the past,

Just as you gleaned the amber

From the beach,

Adornment for clothes a far off concept,

The flames instead being gilded

With an orange glow

Whilst a tale as old as the forest is being told.

Those were your people,

And they christened you after the sea,

Picked out new born, from waters unnamed,

You lay in your mother’s arms,

Young, wrinkled, wild: untamed

As you cried for the tide you were taken from,

Not knowing another world was under your ocean.

I was under that world, compressed and

Consuming in the loam,

Until five years later I was unearthed

And carried home,

By hands that butterflied

Reluctance to kindle the sparks

Of the fire burning low along the shore.

Mined and yours, that tradition is no more,

Set me in a ring, clasp me on a chain,

But as always, always refrain

From casting me in flames;

Let me shine in the sunlight

And feel the clear air,

As below my lady I revolve,

A satellite to be forever there.



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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