Edge
Jan 19 2010


She always felt claustrophobic
here.
It was the trees
looming up, crowding close,
the dark and brooding forest.
Like unbending sentries
an impassive palace guard —
at attention, sight-lines centred
on some fixed and distant point.
While the murk concealed eyes,
obsessively watching us.

She hated the damp uneven earth
the snags and burrs
reaching out,
grabbing at her as she walked.
And she was unnerved
by the wind’s relentless whispering,
the groaning wood
the sudden rustling of leaves
— like a flock of dull black birds
bursting up into flight.

While I feel protected, enclosed —
the cool green,
the warmth
of rich dark soil.
Because I need a place with an edge
a clear-cut border;
close enough to know
I can breathe,
can step across into freedom.

She returned to where she came —
the big important city,
where anonymity frees her.
But there’s no there
there
no outside,
and I am claustrophobic;
confined by its sprawl,
trapped
in cacophony and traffic.