Michael Eyre
They say the ghosts of their ancestors
still dwell in this lost city of adobe towers,
though the songs and everyday sounds
have long since fallen silent.
This hidden place,
concealed deep within the canyon,
is a sanctuary of beauty –
an ancient, sacred site
where the children of the Sun Father
and Earth Mother lived centuries ago.
There is only silence now,
save for the caw of ravens
circling the high sandstone cliffs.
Strange symbols carved in stone
hint at the vibrant community
that struggled to survive
in the harsh highland desert.
Out of respect, I whisper “hello”,
asking permission to enter the pueblo.
I feel the ancestral spirits consent
as I begin to climb the wooden ladder
to the pithouses, where women,
wearing turquoise jewelry,
once prepared sweetcorn
in elaborately patterned pots.
Until one day, they slipped away, never to return.
The canyon is left holding
their lingering ghosts,
the memory of their voices
in these empty, sunken rooms.
And yet, they are still here.
I see their presence carried
in the lives of their descendents
who keep the ways of the ancients alive.