By Tracy Rodger
We never knew the path drew a child’s off kilter circle through
the darkest, smallest forest,
holding hands with my cousin,
we held our breath as Granda shushed us,
showed us where the bears crept down for supper,
every snuffle made our wee hearts flutter,
star-glazed eyes silvery, glittering
under cold beams of that big lunar bully
rising and shining on tired bears and wired bairns
wandering the nighttime woods.
We never guessed how close to home we’d been the whole way round,
too busy listening for the sound of something wild in the deep,
sleep-defying darkness, wishing for some crumbs of bread to follow
’til Granda lit his pipe and let its fragrant flicker
lead us back to blissful, dreamless bed.