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Dryad ©

Mike Cormack
Aberdeen, Scotland
2005

Running through wood-shaded verdant-secret forest,
The growing fear of surrounding life creeping
Like moss, she tumbles and falls, drifts thorough mists,
And sweeps and leaps over fallen branch,
Leafy shadow-hidden hill, owly woods:
A maddened dryad amidst crazy trees
Mad and swaying against a dusk-red sun,
Hidden shadows winking, sly, out of sight.

On she runs, dress flailing, hair loosely adrift.
Now the snort and stamp of nearby
Horses creeps over, hot, moist, frightening
Reminders of unknown secrets still unencountered -
The hidden flames and bittersweet senses of
Looming adulthood: exciting-alarming, veiled, ahead.

She stops, stands to listen: the distant
Splashing of chattering water floats past,
Deep-rooted trees darkly sway,
And the low woody hoot of an owl,
This distant, indifferent, high-swooping
Night-creature calls out to her.
And she hears, far above, herself reply,
And the horses are silent.


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