Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

— Virginia Woolf

The Woods in Spring

by Matthew Dobson

The last time I came here there were no leaves.

Now there are thousands. They are refugees

come in from the cold, taking up valuable space

but giving us something else—the air we breathe.

They turn our shadows green

and provide somewhere for our darkest thoughts to hide—

a blackbird whispering, carting around its solid gold beak,

its pen nib that writes treaties in beautiful, invisible ink

(it takes dawn or dusk to makes their letters appear,

and they glow like the Hebrew in Rembrandt’s

Belshazzar’s Feast). When the leaves fall,

we will step around them, kick them, spit on them,

but when we fall we will hug them,

hold them to our chests, make their skin our own.

 

 

MATTHEW DOBSON has had work published in Neon, The Butcher’s Dog, The Turtle Island Quarterly, Agenda (online broadsheet), and Ink, Sweat and Tears; He had a poem commended by Don Paterson in the Philip Larkin Poetry Competition 2014.

 

The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

© 2016 The Indianola Review

 

 

The last time I came here there were no leaves.

Now there are thousands. They are refugees

come in from the cold, taking up valuable space

but giving us something else—the air we breathe.

They turn our shadows green

and provide somewhere for our darkest thoughts to

hide—

a blackbird whispering, carting around its solid gold

beak,

its pen nib that writes treaties in beautiful, invisible

ink

(it takes dawn or dusk to makes their letters appear,

and they glow like the Hebrew in Rembrandt’s

Belshazzar’s Feast). When the leaves fall,

we will step around them, kick them, spit on them,

but when we fall we will hug them,

hold them to our chests, make their skin our own.