red blood, black soil

squirrel

Pregnant, again, accidentally.
A major shock.
She had been planning all sorts of things.

Sat by the busy road with her back against the cafe window
thinking about overpopulation, particulates, carbon dioxide.
There are too many of us
and I am tired.

A tapping on the glass behind her.
A tiny girl with long blonde curls and pearls for teeth is pulling faces. For her.
The sun comes out in a warm surge
She pulls faces back.
Surrender, and a kernel of delight coalesces. A girl. A daughter.

Now she allows herself to imagine it all –
The principle of life flowing through her.
Tears of wonder.

On Dartmoor in the rain she dreams a red squirrel in an oak tree
surrounded by tiny lights, tiny children, a tiny door.
That day she sees two fallen trees decaying in a death embrace,
with another shooting skyward from their upturned roots.

Next day she wakes up pouring bright blood.

Kneel under oak
Hear the wind
Feel the sun’s pulse

A squirrel approaches with an acorn.
Dear, dear Acorn.

White light
Red blood
to black soil

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