Spirit of the Wood
I see her in the tree ahead, foreign body
to the wood and bark. Mottled feathers, snow
and mud, a used path two days after snowfall.
She is receiving the night
that bounces, trots and calls;
She is receiving the night of
squeaking, sniffling, whines and yawns;
She is the night's gunshot the keeper of the world,
anyone steps out of line, down she swoops.
The wings are oars rowing the darkness
sweeping away the light from the withering sun.
Her slingshot tongue, rock splintering tone
that spears the pitch black, where stars fall in.
GARETH CULSHAW lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who is encouraged by his best friend, his collie, Jasper.