We, creatures of mimicry – the gatherers of forked leaves, cherry blossoms stowed warm in your purse; the rain bicycle – not cycle – but bicycle: one we ride home, all “gung-ho”, better in a thunderstorm So, instead of talking to we, we, talk mostly, to the trees. Or, the blush-hop of a robin (splinters for tea) and, sometimes, the rat-tat-tat of light as it flashes through iron fences On Sundays, as the crowds line up, we, well-wishers, used lovers of Yggdrasil; ticket buyers terracotta sticking-plaster hoarders newspaper wrapping plastic perfume bottle top burning “We” bury thumbs in jam pots honey bee hotels swallow-throats, and sometimes the odd cactus flower Followers of anything called house home Until we, replace "I" with coat-tails rock-graves, the crawling on all fours until we find something “finer”.
© Eve Redwater 2012
Advertisements
