Grimbeau

Bad dreams of loss woke me at five-thirty

alone at the end of the path in the forest.

It is a loud, bright, busy morning.

A fresh black sky is barely visible

above the lowering, voracious honeysuckle,

the rutted track vanishes in turgid blue grass

and crass knotted gargoyle root overwhelms the rest.

I can neither go back nor forward.

I have no machete, no will, no sense.

A dog appears, wags politely, squeezes out through the forest gate.

I dry cry, picturing my contorted face

And bowed in shame  pour coffee from the grenade.

Soon I will climb up the hawser to the treehouse

and bathe my tongue in the putrid raging waterfall.

There are always rough towels to hand