Gill Horitz
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What Lies in the Winter Wood
End of day, end of year – and she’s thinking what’s next,
head against the pane and the wind slamming the gate.
When she looks up, the trees are moving through the half-light
towards her, through snow piled over the vanished road.
Not a single thought holds her back.
All the meanings held by the trees she remembers,
and how their barks can unroll and be written upon.
No ordinary wood moves like this, and time is short.
Through the holly tunnels she sings a low song to the owl
and the night leans down, savouring her wintry breath.
What will I take from this? she thinks, looking back
as the moon hurries her along. To believe just once
that such a place exists, the imaginary heart
where everything worth moving towards lies.
Published Smiths Knoll 50