Sometimes it’s a walk through the gothic forest
and my cape would get caught
and the wind would wheeze through the holes, torn
by fleshless thorns.

Shreds of my starched cloth caught among their fingers
would flutter like hearts that of butterflies
who had been forced to leave them  behind.

The bats overhead gliding above me
from tree to tree would marginally miss me
and that would be my excuse to bend
and grasp a handful of parched leaves.
Some would prick my hands
when I hide them inside the pockets
buried in my long gown
and I would not mind
and I would smile at stealing
a small part of the overgrown woods.

When at last I reach home I would crush
the sand clung leaves
with a rolling pin
and burn in my wide metal dish, humming a soft song
blowing here and then
the mist out of the smoke
and out of myself,
those the parts
the light had missed.

©Malintha Perera 2015

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