Women of the trees

The car rasps

as it turns

out of the car park, and clutters

off into the distance, its exhaust pipe

choking. You with the seagull eyes, you

stare, play an unrehearsed tune

with your tongue as if you know, and

try to catch my attention

As if. The waves beat rhythms that I can hear,

but you think the drumroll is yours. I’ve seen

what can happen

if you sit in a car too long.

Let go of the gear stick

and see where we’ve been waiting

in the woods where

we don’t mind

when trees snag our hair, because

we can climb them

and see so much further:

where we’ve gone and where

we’ll be.