Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The Woods


Listen! The trees of the deep,

dark wood, shivering and

jittering their leaves like papery

hulls of beaten silver; the sly

wind, snaking through their

tops, whispering that it will

soon begin. The moonless night

has slipped on a pair of fine,

leather gloves, shaken a black

sheet across the land: a ruse,

a disguise, a sleeping spell,

so that all beneath it slumbers

sweet. And look: the rough

woolliness of the huddled

woods; the quilted stretch

of fields, the sleek black

river that lies flat no longer.

A bubble has appeared,

there in the widest stretch;

a heaving bubble, a quiver

of tiny ripples. A mourning

rose closes its lids.


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