Tuesday, April 14, 2015


I can't remember the circumstances in which this poem was written, and that's probably a  good thing.

I was in a hawthorn,
trapped in its branches;
all arms, hands and fingers
prevailing on me not to struggle. 

I was an exhibit in a jar
ragged and shock-eyed,
praying for a passer-by
where ravens perch still for hours. 

I was a storm-blown tatter
caught in another’s stitching;
my cries drifting into the sky
nonchalant like dandelion seeds.

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