An intense mortality creeps inward
Biting as a teething child,
Drawing, sucking, forcing out the breath
And into fear, or solitude, or both
But even in embalméd troth
A grasping web beneath.

I hide, cushioning myself around
With fortress borne in green’s grey mist
Deprived, depriving, crying out
For love or hate to penetrate
Or both, but mute in dreams,
And white from yesterday.

November 1978 (as amended)
© Michael G Reid 1978-2011