Do you remember summer rain …


…when sheltering was a game: 


that hollow tree by the meadow – our house.

When a sun shower was the name 

for a break in the journey to the weir for a swim.


And nobody drowned 

and no one got lost in the woods 

and there were no woodcutters to flatten the grass 

only ever bending from the weight of raindrops. 


It was a tree with an opening 

into a womb lined in moss; shelter 

for the game of storms, wolves, 

terrible men with black beards, 

dark witches bringing us to tears, 

hunting us down, to cut off our fingers.



The retellings on this site (though true to the myths them selves) are my own work and copyrighted to me so please ask before using elsewhere.

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