Deep in the Silent Forest

in the silent forest,

the sage counts thyme

with the Mary Rose

–

backwards it flows

towards a moment

in a see, saw, life

–

that prescience of

a single second,

hanging on a barb

–

where a face sways

the more demanding

on a ramshackle swing

–

again, in this life

a game of dice

with so very many losers

–

past bedtime now

and so to sleep

under duvet cosy

–

une épave qui reste,

au fond de la mer,

en état de non-flottabilité