by Clare Walker
Woodcutter, why did you slit my
mother's side? Her big heart beat so
wildly as you ripped me from the
dark red cave where I lay curled.
The wood was so warm, as dark as
my desire, not for daisies but
to cast off the hood, to emerge
as I preferred:
Golden eyed, tongue new-dyed crimson,
words evaporating. Meeting
creatures with my heartbeat, tasting
the sweetness of a red sunset.
Woodcutter, you will take my hand
To scrub and scrub the cottage floor.
One by one teeth will turn to gums
The cold axe glinting by the door.
Clare Walker lives in Yorkshire where she is currently training to be a librarian. She is inspired by rumours, faerie tales and many cups of tea. Her favourite fruit encompasses all berries, but she wants to give a special mention to bilberries. These tart-tasting, aromatic fruits remind her of walking on the moors in the sunshine.
Back to the Table of Contents.