I.
Tussocks:
the moor’s repine, fields wide,
these sinewy growths
are cairns or markers,
but of what?
The tree stands, alone
Naked in the dark
The courtyard is silent now
Lies of past glory whisper through the branches
- which are breaking -
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These hands are not his hands,
they are my hands.
But sometimes in my mind they are his hands,
and other times they are not hands at all,
they are claws.
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These are the secrets I cannot keep:
How she bends over the world to plant a goodnight’s kiss,
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There was once something in the woods,
Ever so wild and free,
A being no one dared to name,
But they all craved to see.
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