The Woodman’s Tale
If it’s night he should know it,
but her hair glows, leafed with the falling
and forests are always possibilities
of other things.
If light fails, follow darkness
in my eyes she says, unfolds the map
engraved on her, marks him with a cross
and draws him in.
She scatters words like pebbles
stepping stones of sound, tastes
of mossy glades, ripe apples, nourishment
he’d never known.
Hard to feel the morning loss
to imagine dawn anchored eastwards
the vessel of her sailed, flaming masts of trees,
an aftertaste of sawdust, knots.
Mary Gilonne is a free lance translator ,originally from Devon but has been living in France near Aix en Provence for many years. She has been short listed twice for the Bridport prize, published in online magazines, and considers poetry to be as essential as food and wine.