Reflection

• Clare Horsfall, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2022

I reach a fated hand towards the world close by,
To grasp at the so near
The glimmering sky, and quivering tree full so close,
It hovers for a moment.
Then grabs-
Cold nothingness,
A pale mockery.
All that lies within are the entrails of a mud filled monster,
Whose belly is fed by the decaying stumps, and rotten grass that lies by.
I pull at the heavy hand which drools into the depths,
Its dead weight anchoring me down,
further,
colder.
My fingertips brush the mud.
I see the last, pale globe from my open mouth rise slowly to the surface.
It joins the sun.