more poetry - discuss!

LOST IN TRANSLATION by Mary Smith

Once, people spoke their maps.
Everyone knew where lay
rough moorland of the perilous region,
the hill of the eagle,
mountain of awesome grandeur.

Once, people were wary of the crag
of the storm-swept range, made pilgrimage to
the hill of the memorial pile or that other,
above the hollow of the warrior’s tomb.

Once, people spoke their land
and what it meant to them,
before strangers, with inflexible tongues,
bringing pen and parchment, plotted

names which whisper only an echo
of what they once were:
Palgowan, Benyellery, Mulwharchar,
Craigmasheenie, Pinbreck,
Corrafeckloch.