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.

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