Poetry by Amanda McLeod : Old Growth

Old Growth
Twilight hums around me as I step
outside. The air is crisp and nibbles
my fingertips as I hug myself
against the gathering dusk.
The hay crushes sweet beneath
my bare feet, wandering
towards the orchard. The trees
sing to me, old songs with forgotten
words, wind and leaves
their voices. Memories stir,
of something hovering
at the edge of light,
waiting
A solitary crow alights upon a
withered branch, shrieking
its harsh call, a warning. I shake
my head, as if the very action
might dislodge the ghosts
afloat in my head, among the shadows
lengthening at bases of
trunks. Blue-purple blooms
in the small spaces of the orchard,
the small spaces of my mind.
I have always felt at home
in dark places.
I step between
twisted branches
heedless of the crow’s rising
hysteria, flapping and cawing with
impotent rage from its perch.
I turn and tell him loudly
that my folly is none
of his business
and that should the orchard
consume me
it would be
welcome.
The creature is not my
familiar.
Not like the darkness
that swells among the fallen
apples. I slide my bones between
the bones of trees,
their ghosts, the rotting corpses of their children,
and with the last echoes of tree-hymn
I vanish
leaving a ball of black feathers
screaming unheeded warnings
into vapourous ears
while the orchard laughs
leaf-trembles and bids the bird
see, see what she gives us
that you cannot?