In The Wood


A spectral figure in a mist-grey coat,
running on soundless feet
A silent scream rent from a broken throat,
a life now incomplete
Whose feet and legs still know the ground,
whose body no substance feels
The storm that blew the forest down,
yet snapping at her heels
Pity the Dryad who lost her tree,
the dragon who lost her egg
Pity the one who runs foolishly,
who stops by the wayside to beg
Pity them all yet stay away
from the jagged stumps and mosses
He who enters the forest today
may not live to count his losses

© jane jago 2017


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