Photo by Eva Wilcock on Unsplash 

    Ancestors

Their voices – those we barely
remember, those we never

knew – urge us to bear witness.
A corpse on barbed wire. Nights filled

with flames. One hand slipping from
another’s grasp. They’ve suffered

beyond our knowing. But then
they ask us to turn, and walk

towards the spring of our lives.
Out in the woods their voices

merge with the trill and chatter –
nuthatch, mistle-thrush, blackbird.