Tilly

Kate Buck

silver snakes slither

grasping in throngs

the tongs of black crayon

prickling and puncturing

twining secrets like wool

winding amongst the weeds

weaving a different story

this bearded brush

sweeps up the tree’s bare skin

spearing skeletal hands

now brown

with age

discarded

on the crystal ground

this accidental leaf picker

is on a different path

head amongst fresher foliage

she cuts stone with gold

this curly coat like breath

lacing smoky circles

amongst those

bare

reaching

branches.