The Ogre’s Yard

We were so small in that stone yard,
creeping as if our shadows scratched.
The barn, black keep, steamed silently
behind us as we ran. Away from it
the outer field, a blue head, mounted,
a dome of snow, stared down at us.
The frost-scorched cedars stretched toward us
where birds in their clenched stupor hung,
wind-shrouded. We ran, a centipede of print
across the page of moonlight. Open ground
was dangerous. But in the woods
the sonorous footsteps of huge beasts
lurked in the creaking of the trees.
We climbed the ice-brown armoured streams,
and found no paths, the maps
we hoped to follow damp, long
out-of-date, unclear.

This poem “The Ogre’s Yard” originally appeared in Canadian Literature 214 (Autumn 2012): 30.

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