"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
Take away daylight
and go deep down into silent, gloomy woods.
There is shelter from the cat-calling wind
and the moss wheezes, sodden underfoot.
Exiled here I am allowed to worship you,
and think to touch your shy skin
in the cool dark where secrets are made
looked on only by the moon with its pearly grin.
Trees sink their dextrous roots into soft earth
spreading and pulling, surging branches into wintery air.
Against the torchlight they are iron gates
to this place where dreamers lie.
This, dearest one, is the last time I will write bluey veins across my page
The darkness is left in the dark.
I’ve wiled away hours on you,
spider-like writing crawling across a salt flat of white –
subsuming all other thoughts
filling up with earth to plant the seeds of tiny dreams.
I must trace back along the breadcrumbs left before –
cast out the time you robbed from me,
and wade through these thoughts of far away things.