Grass sways by the abandoned house I cower inside––a trembling mouse exposed to the bright flash of day when all else has gone away.
First my father, then my mum go away and never come again to shelter, feed or love. Life is a winging mourning dove
that makes us and then flies away, making green grass into hay, the flush of life and then decay, a harsh light turning shadows gray.
Life swells like paint–a curling blister. It peels away my older sister, then also takes my younger brother and never comes to bring another.
A shadow passes over me. A sparrowhawk. I dare not flee, for life is mainly perilous. It makes us just to feed on us.
Outside I see the preening cat. It waits for me––patient and fat in tall grass by the abandoned house wherein I hide–a trembling mouse.
Daily Inkling’s Prompt: You’re walking in the woods, and there is an old shack in the middle of nowhere. You open the front door to find a completely different realm entirely unlike our own. Describe this new domain. (This is a reblog of a poem written two years ago.)