The forest’s manmade prow
husbands the windcombed field.
Surged impatience of barley and grass,
breath pearled with mist.
Wind blows nervous on the field,
kingfisher trembles in warning.
The sea drench fractures his grief,
having trusted in the forest
and finding himself in an evil place.
Of humiliation, utter loss,
more than deepest middle night.
Caught mantle shreds on a caught root.
The stones moan to their sisters,
sleeve of weeds their hideaway,
their purdah, their colonial mispronounced
harem.
Singing
–Give comfort to the enemy,
but not to this stranger,
this changeling who coaxed the thorns
to spring and fasten at his eyes.