Saturday, 19 April 2014

17. Twigs

“Let’s gather sticks,” he said.

Beneath our feet were broken
acorns striving to take root.

Everything was twigs.

We made small pyres—
bonfires for the voles,

their lithe velvet bodies
fit to stuff in our pockets.

Night fell like soft black snow,
gathering in clumps and hollows.

Our fires were tiger eyes
that blinked in the breeze.

We followed the tigers
all the way to the water.

We made boats from twigs
to sail across the Styx.

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