He is here.
He circles me
moving to his sombre tune.
I do not look at him,
if I do, it will invite him in,
and he will lay his shades of darkness
across the last glowing embers
of colour in my mind.
His wild jig is captivating,
but I must not watch for long.
Nor can I step into the inky pools
collecting at his feet.
I will drown if I do.
His song speaks to me,
pulling at the frayed edges of my will,
trying to draw me in.
But I cannot submit.
I must turn from the false comfort
he promises in shadows.
So I run.
I run to the light.
Primrose Jones , March ’26 as part of ‘Write together’ group
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