By Esme Bell
At first we might think kindly:
a warm sort of self-knowing
collective, paintable, obedient
to wind and errant sunbeams.
But it’s slippery still – unanswerable
really like a head tossed away –
and in midnight swathes might
creep pillow-wise and set to
its own knotted cartography,
using the stars to see.
Despite all best efforts,
nobody has caught it growing.
Scissors can work well
as a countermeasure –
although I’ve found
they won’t hold it for long.