Wood Mouse

I held my history close,

became a fanatic of secrets;

I smothered them with silence.

He said, tell your memories

to the Ash trees, 

but I saw how the ferns, 

hart's tongues, unfurled 

to hear them. 

A green shade of fronds - 

they were impervious 

to the tragedy of this mask

or how I had bridled myself.

I was a wood mouse, 

once timid and innocent,

that ate the dark ugliness 

of centipedes

that congealed the blood,

and incited its own winter torpor.
 

Image from pixabay.