Hidden Bodies

When I was young,

I buried the memories 

in deep trenches,

the better to not think 

about them.

Now I am old,

and, like rotting corpses

along the riverbank,

they keep popping up

at inconvenient moments,

when the Memory Police

are strolling by,

quick to point out

the error of my ways.

I have moved 33 times,

like a vagabond.

My roof stayed true: 

blue bowl of sky,

the old growth forest,

my greenly walls.

The ocean breeze

sings my homecoming song,
counterpoint provided by

ravens.

My roots have always been 

lightly planted,

to uncomplicate

the leaping forward.

In such loose soil,

it's no surprise

the occasional 

severed  appendage

may appear.

for Rommy's prompt at Real Toads  on the third day of April: to write something inspired by "No Roots", sung by Alice Merton.