You look into the forest’s depths,
The twists of branches, knots of fear,
Reflected panic of the dusk,
And through the tangle: night black eyes,
Or ember eyes, or mirror moons,
Or timeless worlds which pluck in dark
The twitching, writhing remnant lives,
Before the silent wings fold back.
And trees cloak round to hide the deaths,
To save the torment of the rest.
The forest floor forgets what’s passed,
And carries on with nothing lost.
Pressed tight against the oak tree’s trunk,
A night of killing hides in day.