Walking Ophelia


I, something not quite

A woman, to whom

You talk of moons and

Of waxes and wanings

But who knows what

Planet my womb

Is circling and

I am standing

Still the whole chaos

Inside me


You sing of seasons

And I chant the

Incantations

Of an old

Soothsayer

This is no season

But these stirrings of

Annihilation


Whatever amniotic

Hurricanes formed

The crag of my

Face, set into the

Wind blasted across

The decimated plain

On which I fix

My gaze


The light has grown

Nicotined cataracts

And everything

Is greyed as threadbare

Once-white knickers


In one last

Desperate burst

Of colour

The crowns

Of trees thick

With crows

Lift up appeals to

Time like

A clamouring lover


Pleading

Even as they shed

Even as they

Abandon themselves

To abandonment

And I too, I am readying just

Like this for some kind

Of winter