Many wombs opened before my coming; br In Catholic Normandy, flat Flanders, br The past turns in its coils, br Blood of my tribe, spent rubies in its eyes. br Dutch, French and Spanish, br Pounded into the gritty bread of Scots. br br I was an old man's child, br Singer of songs, as all his village knew, br Who made the short walk to the grass br In a warm winter, br Grief and joy like sword-cuts on his brow. br br One brother sleeps by the maple, br Another fills the bellies of Inca worms. br br My mother, a withered gourd br Came late to the birth-bed; br Her christening present to me was a thorn. br br Many wombs opened before my coming, br Quiet doors in the spirit house on the moor. br Grandmother's ghost is weaving a wooden cradle br So she may nurse my bones.