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Minefield
It is my move.
The terrifying tread
I must make,
to span the distance
to that tree. No crows,
just the wind's rake.
The earth's chess-clock.
Breath's sea.
Alone, with one-hundred mines.
A maze of enemies wait
to smash my legs into bread and wine;
blood's prickle.
It is my move.
I see life in rehabilitation.
Television interviews, I dream
of charity marathons. Honours.
I see death, unremembered.
No crows.
One-hundred enemies
grin. Tick tick.
The tree stares in worry,
in prayer and the ache
of want.
I run.
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