A Hunt in the Hollow

Written by Heather Powell

The wind no longer comes to touch the trees
That stand unmoving like my horse and I.
These days, nothing stirs much anymore.
I’ve traveled this wood for years, yet never seeing
it as others do, as I long to.
Everything looks dull and lifeless now
Since the last head rotted off.
I see these trees and bushes, with hints of orange,
through eyes I cannot claim for my own.
Forced to use a pumpkin skull in place
of the one the cannon claimed on Chatterton Hill.
My horse stays deathly still while we wait to hunt.
I hate this weekly quest to find a head that’s fresh
to lend me the ephemeral kiss of normality.
I yearn to blend into this sleepy town
and find my place outside the graves
and – Is that a horse I hear? I see it now.
This creature may bring the one I need tonight,
the head I need to truly live another week or two.
He’s creeping closer with his perfect head, this nobody.
Forever end his life to ease my own existence
for a week or two at most?
He had a right to fear my woods
because I crave the comfort of the commonplace.
It’s time to ride!