Fern

Your eyes are pine forests in East Rendlesham,
bluebell woods out the back of that home
we'd never own near Tavistock,
you'd decided where to sleep,
place your army,
belly the shape
of a bunny's blonde back
who escaped from our garden one Sunday,
she returned black and white,
smaller,
at Gran's.
Your genes are inscribed
with the openness I have
locked in my jail shell
each Winter.
Yes,
your rage is the wilderbeast
cruising for prey,
nightmares made plain,
placenta's fresh fingers,
sorrow is a screw they called a clip,
posterior labour beneath moon,
day thirteen colostrum,
iron lows, flicker-lights.
My love can trample the torlands,
cause that wolfchild to purr,
champions satisfaction and knowledge,
creates a castle where you'll thrive.