A low hung sky
The flames snarled at the twigs,
and tore at the bark,
but didn’t give enough light to see other faces.
A forest of twigs and branches,
as we made our way along the path.
Concentration was array,
And our steps were slurred and speech dry.
Seized by the hoodie,
Grabbed by the hair.
The ground was harder than them.
Several Blows. The fire was out,
and only the river ran by.
Screams were trepid,
Footsteps were scarce,
All that was there was time.
Claws into a tree trunk,
arms like a motor,
My mouth was anything but dry.
Spitting and struggling as I inched away,
there was no moon that night.
Grass is longer,
Field more open,
my arms slung over shoulders.
Hurried away like a secret,
Sky hanging low tonight.
Pavements were damp,
Distant music thudded.
Streets arrived one by one.
Finally we were home.
Smiling faces, warmth and the dry,
Closing the door on a low hung sky.
