I Went to the Wood to Get Away
By Gareth Culshaw
I found a tree stump, rested my legs,
folded myself into my trouser pocket.
A crow called from outside my head.
I looked into the wood listened to raindrops
trip up birdsong. Somewhere a robin
called your name. Brambles hair-pinned
themselves until the wood became
too tight to walk in. I needed to create
a path to force myself out. A bee
brought a drone noise above my head.
In the distance, traffic scraped away
the earth’s roundness. Hours from now
stars would flick on as oven bulbs.
I hunched up my life thought of you
working away inside glass and brick
typing words out of your head.
Your hair a summer sandwich,
and your pupils, two ladybirds sunbathing
on a stonewall. I became a shell,
the wood grew into the darker hours.
A squirrel brought a flinch to my knees
as a badger caught itself in the shock
of my reflection. I stood, fidgeted through
this attic wood, tripped over your fingers,
lay on the floor as you saddled my thighs.
A landrover carried engine noise,
and we rolled around covered in leafmould,
lost under the soundhole moon.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He has two collections by FutureCycle called The Miner & A Bard’s View. He is a current student of Manchester Met.