The wolf is pounding at the door.
I limp down the dark hall,
hobble down the stairs.
The golden bolt is shot
securely and I see no harm
in a little light.
Fix myself a sharp drink. It helps,
gets to work on dissolving the
barbed wire coiled in my throat.
Light plumes. Red embers
ask to be roused back into some kind of life.
Other places, not far from here, delight in fresh winds, daylight.
A woman in blue jeans and Fair Isle sweater gets her back into
shoving a wheeled contraption to the top of the hill.
The load is hidden under a tarpaulin.
You join me as I get on my boots,
go back to the farm from where,
for reasons I can't remember, we – or is it just me?
have been forbidden.
Stealth is required.
But somehow, the old farmer's wife is alert
to any changes and I tell you to quickly
to get under cover:
I can see her glasses glinting from the farmhouse window.