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Annika Reed |
Annika has an MA in Media Arts and is a practising artist available for commissions. She lives in Newcastle where she delivers workshops on photograms and pinhole photography. See her work at: http://annika.everis.net
The Hare's Lament
I
I found an old hare's spoor in minted grass,
it carved then turned leaf, blade, spider's web shards
that shine; catching and storing dew drop glass,
foot-shaped, cupp'd, cradl'd, soon to fade; a charm
she spins necklacing over lea, her string
of pearled pools, posterity to store
with your milk teeth of cream; and whilst unseen
she deftly insets jewels, rough hewn, shod for
a trail to lure, petering out under
the woolly roots and cloaked by field's low brume:
beneath the golding sun, I needs plunder
the hare's watery gems, before the noon
day smelts the spoors and all I see is motes
that glimmer, will o' the wisps in daylight; totes.
II
A fleeting mongst purple loosestrife, sports
a garment old man's beard (ephem'ral hosts
come round like rising spirits nurtured) nought
but looming weeds, the beards like heathen ghosts
on wasteland, where she lithely runs, a wisp
of hare now urged by dandelion time:
opaque chinese lantern you glow like 'hips,
squint views of her pelt floating parts of signs
and seeds, too far to hold: soft gauzey rain
on fevered paws, a gingered streak; your burn-
ing brow and moonful eyes a snare, contains
her strides, each length older; a hound you are
with rising warmth, blood swells two hearts, as fear
keeps breathing, hare and hound must share one tear.
III
Racing haywire, she's swept along by beams
of amber, ribb'ning over tree and leaf,
a fire-fly trail to thread light, sew seams
amongst moss dark twigs, beechnut shells; to lead
on journey's close of soil hollowed and wait-
ing; glows from almong curl kin, who supine
and gone to earth, shed fur and claws to make
for quiv'ring paws to scoop, sculpt her nest rimed
and sealed with hoared sweat: she lays on hazled floor,
leathered berries like marbles roll; she breathes
her name: I stroke downey ears and fall
on fire-flowered track shorn of skin; I see
her seeded coat left, moon cast; mine eye pours,
fixed, fawning pile, soft, opal hands now paw.