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Spaces Between Trees by Claire Walker

At dusk, she knows this place as beautiful.
Trees begin to speak as silhouettes,
a dark weaving across the sky’s loom.
The sun slinks, wolf-like, away from her eyes.

The house smells of the day’s work,
a comfort of cinnamon and yeast.

She wonders about decisions, here on the front step,
looking at the play of shapes that branches make
as they lose light.

In daylight, she is so sure of herself.
Her plans spark like rays of sun
flickering through spaces between trees.
Images flash as a new home, a wedding band, a cub.

But now

she wraps her hooded cloak tighter against the chill.
Even red disappears as the sun sets.

---

Claire Walker's poetry has been published widely. She has two pamphlets published by V. Press - The Girl Who Grew Into A Crocodile (2015), and Somewhere Between Rose and Black (2017), which was shortlisted for Best Poetry Pamphlet at the 2018 Saboteur Awards. Her third pamphlet, Collision, is due in September 2019 from Against the Grain Press. She is Co-Editor of Atrium poetry webzine.

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