The little thickets were the only place to get to.
The absence of the sea
Set a white, extravagant quiet.
I awaited the great beauty of the gorse—
Ringing the snares with its unction.
It was intent, like torture.
Its dead black spikes
Made a hole in nothing.
And its flowers tasted like vacancy.
It was an ancient twist of the tripwire set me bleeding.
Clamped in the copper gleam of a human contrivance
I wait, aghast, as an indolent fly
Trails the blade-edge of our drama.
‘Murderer!’ I cry, but my words do not
Translate beyond a tortured weeping.
Doomed to the Sunday stew-pot
I lie locked as you penetrate the gorse
Your blunt fingers riving snare after snare
From the innocent land, your unworldly
Exploration driving you to desecrate
The sanctity of this eyrie hollow—
Where my simmering entrails come fresh
Into your dybbuk hands.