Further information
Publication details
Volume 1, May 1996
Boadicea Lives
Boadicea lives on the mountain
where icicles point upward to the sky,
catching light from stars to fling it back again,
her only light in time, she holds it in her eyes,
as coins between her muddy fingernails.
She harvests ice as you might radishes or pears,
digs in the dirt alone, ploughs armies, whispers greedily
of rats and knives, rats and knives.
She breaks daggers from their stalks and one
by one she turns and scrapes them into blades
to lay them point to point against her enemies.
Her hair is ragged, strung with the crackling ghosts
of flames in hearths she left behind,
her clothes are pages torn from books
that clutter round her, dead leaves lifted by the wind.
She dances with her cold sword to make her wrists
stay thin and strong against her prey, singing
of rats and knives, rats and knives,
the silver knives that die with seasons and return.
Boadicea plays with rats and dreams
they are her children, come for food and warmth,
escaping nights through crevices, wilful
to fight or bite their murderers' fees, or slip
away unheeding to the mountain caves.
Rats and knives, rats and knives.
She will arm her folk with ice,
before the melt turns earth and wood bone grey.
Hairs will snap, blades will raven, white on black.
Her knives will pare the moon
and by its darkness bring light back to her again.
University information
CRICOS Code: 00126G
