Below the wood the tarn
as still as a hunter
waiting.
The doe in fog, a sodden net,
inches lower, dips her head,
ears stretched for steps, safety
catches, breaths.
Hooves as delicate as ladies’ hands
grace mud, then press a grasp
so smooth, so welcoming.
It’s not until she’s dipped her cloven
feet in deep that she feels the
pull, and cannot leap.
For a moment in her fear she sees
a doe beneath her, looking up,
one shoulder arched
like Nosferatu as she tugs.
1 comment:
Hello again,
I've had this written on paper for a while but I only just transferred it to the computer.
http://heartofsweets.blogspot.com/2012/01/analysis-of-below-wood-tarn-by-george.html
Well done with "The Bottom Lake",
Adam
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