by Devon Balwit

The grave ship at Sutton Hoo hove east to west,
from then to another then, treasure-laden + mysterious. 

All that remained of its navigator is fretwork, 
golden bosses + clasps. We diggers are left 
to guess what one must accomplish 

to be buried with such a ransom, vaulted 
beneath stars + meadow vetch.  

Even its tillerman had to release it, returned 
to calcium + phosphate, his hoard 

itemized + vacuum-glassed. 
The grave ship at Sutton Hoo hove east to west,

bearing its glittering trove beneath
cow dung + the bodies of furtive lovers
while power, restless above, moved on.

Close your eyes with the dead in their ghostship. 
Imagine yourself a shovel-blade of wonder.

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About the Author:

When not making art, Devon Balwit walks in all weather and edits for Asimov and Stripe Press and Asterisk and Works in Progress Magazine. For more of her work, visit: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet