Poetry

Cursed ground

It’s just a patch of grass, as

green as that around it, yet

yellow and black tape cordons it off.

Why? What is so different, so dangerous, so other

about this patch?

Is something buried underneath,

alive still, twitching, itching to reach out,

grab ankles, uproot itself using umbrella mushrooms?

Maybe the other grass blades

simply decided they didn’t like that little patch,

that tiny section, that huddle of earth and sprouted seed.

Perhaps they can see something I can’t,

trapped in the details, their canvas of perfection rattled

because of the few individuals declared

broken who refuse to wilt under their gazes.

Or perhaps those cordoned blades

decided to erect a barrier themselves,

electric anger spiking

at being stepped on one too many times.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Wild hunt

The riders churn up the sodden grass. Horses snorting, ragged breaths. The eclipse baths them in amber fire, not unlike that catching in their minds from the fear. Close, even-handed, promising a kiss. The trial failed. People didn’t believe in the grand scales of justice. The colour palette of skin, limb, mind and faith squashed ever tighter by the notches of authority. The moon breaks free of the shadow. The sun is always watching.