Now the invisible, indivisible
terrors have places to crawl
silently (while infant voices squall),
for the garden has become a jungle.
In the last week of May shooting
up, a green explosion, everywhere:
deceptively steady in present looking,
if I turn away they'll be there:
'What time is it, Mr Wolf? -
tender tendrils and monsters too,
tapping on windows while I sleep,
dragging me up from gulfs,
threading their presences through
morning beads as sun climbs steep.
..
YOU ARE READING
Walls Fall
PoetryLetting go of Fortifications and Armouring. There are treasures to be found therein. This is the softest M7 walking in a bare skin. There are no similar stories
