…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.