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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N J Griffiths 