Trap

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

 

Trap

 

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.