Lines near Thetford Forest

Estill Pollock
ISSUE 2007-1
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Lines near Thetford Forest November through the mist, and with it morning's ghosts - from the huddled dark of pines the images emerge, hard-by the clearing of bracken and sapling larch. I have imagined them here, their flanks formed from shadows, the trigger-flick of ear tips alert to this invention of fog and forest. This fiction, hoofed and horned, stands staring, still part of a dimension it only half-escapes, its bundled senses strung between the empty dark and autumn here. I speak and make a cloud, a watermark betrayal that I too am between worlds, each bolting shade named as it clears the scrub, along the ruff of ferns the necklace dew immaculate.