IN THE WOOD

The gate is open:

exploding green trees

strafe a blue-feathered sky

swished by the breeze

that licks your tingled

skin, tickles your ear,

sunlight fretting

the path like a guitar

song that’s jingle-jangled,

horny and harmonised

with soft carpets

of violet-blue-eyed

wild hyacinth and moon-

white may as you pass by

lovers singing me oh my,

past family picnics,

children climbing pines,

chaffinches, to find

a clearing where

nobody can see

you strip and slip

your summer body

into the rippling

blue scintillant lake

to emerge from yecchy

tarnished dead black

water in the shivered dark

and silence, a spewed

wreck slitched in the moon-

sucked wood where few

leaves dreep like bats;

where nothing resounds

in the quivering trees

and bramble but the hollow

sound of a rasping

wind as you follow

your narrow path

circling around

and around where

no gate is to be found.