By
Sam Burnside
20/01/2011
Then, when it is all over here
when I am parked on the border
between two worlds, held in that inscrutable gaze,
when I am laid aside and just waiting,
netted, as it were, laid out on grass,
and impatient to be gathered up
the willow rods bent,
webbed, laced and knotted; knit
to form a basket, a creel, a cot;
when I am
bedded and couched
cradled and cribbed,
with cool moss placed under my neck;
cosseted, so; the cover
closed now and clasped;
lying there, behind these lattice walls,
I may well dream I am seeing tree tops bend
I might just trust I am hearing the wind, blowing among stars;
I may possibly mull over the sensation of knowing the last cool,
caressing kiss of calming air.
Yet, I believe I shall take care to attend to any whisper,
to any murmured instruction to come away.