after Joelle Taylor
Inside him was a boy
weaving his way
through a meadow
speckled with flowers
whose fingers dangled
a catapult; whose knees
were scuffed
from clambering walls,
today one that sparkled
at the back of the convent,
where apple trees blushed
under the care of the father
who beat him blue and black
so he might hide in the shelter
of the Sycamore’s lap,
watch the old man up a ladder
in sunlight flittered by leaves
see mother blackbird
disappear into ivy,
hear tumultuous chirps
from her ravenous brood
whilst turning a stone
through itching fingers
like a terrible,
terrible thought.
