Stricken

On the edges of the trees

I heard him

first

refracting light and love

from the leaves.

When the chords were struck,

they stung.

And in the white light of the dawn

he had sung my lungs to dust.

I wonder, still, if he could see

straight through them

then,

as I know he does now.

The trees beckoned,

leaves trembling.

They saw in my eyes

the wolf

that tore the stag into

raw flesh

and blood, and bone.

Yet at their edges

when I heard him

first

I was the deer

again.

Nia Griffiths, 2017

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