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.
