Beside the river in the dead of night,
a cry, and then another, like a spell,
turns the darkened beeches into light,
the silence of the woods into a bell;
and in the cottage on the moonlit hill
a woman shivers in her narrow bed
to hear the hare; and then the hare is still;
she feels its ginger paws against her head,
its dusty fur, like ghostly butterflies
that fall in winter from the curtain’s hand;
she feels it move; she hears its wild cries
glittering inside her ear like sand:
he’s lost inside the forest of her hair,
and finds, and steals, her mother’s kisses there.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.
