I counted the paces.
between us before I turned,
and tugged the gauze across;
rich with golden deer and tawny trees,
it rippled against me, outstretched.
Some trick of light or cantabile,
softening the lines,
Fallow retreat from barren land.
They say I’m dormant now,
Melting into the ferns.
So while you watch me nestle,
into Francesca’s watercolour drapes.
You think you can hunt me down.
Well I’ll be poised in stitches,
waiting for the chase.
But are you really ready to unravel yourself?
(c) Accidental Tentacles 2016