Poems that you love

[rayheinrich]

                RABBIT SEASON          - Helen Ivory

                Woken by the sharp burn
                of moonlight on her face
                she moves to the window,
                sees searchlights unearthing
                the season’s rabbits,
                then remembers the child.
                 
                The last time she’d gone out
                she lost her slippers in the river
                so now her bare feet carry her
                down the stairs, along the hallway
                over the patio and into a night
                cut with gunshot.
                 
                She digs at the edge of the lawn
                with a spade first,
                then with her hands
                to be closer to her work.
                By dawn, there are little mounds of earth,
                but still no child.
                 
                She tidies herself up in time
                to make Bluebeard’s porridge.
                She watches him emerge from the fields,
                his mossy boots soaked with dew,
                a string of rabbit pelts at his waist;
                all their open eyes.