If he wants it,
we’ll play coy with coloured
pictures. Fill the open space
like hungry ants. Invite the boys with
cameras round. No phones.
If he wants it,
we’ll whisper on untapped lines
while we show them the
school again. Our great defence.
Walls, lost in translation,
line the room like towers.
If he wants it,
we’ll crawl into the ground
and scatter; mice who know
the call of an owl
hunting too far to fly
back home.
If he wants it,
we’ll burn like forest fires
light our skin like peppered oil
just to see it spread.
© All rights reserved. Nia Griffiths 2019 .
N J Griffiths 