I didn’t come home

I didn’t come home       my home
came looking for me       in the dark
woods I thought too wide      in reality
impossible to lose a person there

my sister didn’t come home       her home
walked looking for her       with torches
in the dark       hoping not to find her
in the woods       any discovery

is one you can never unsee

years later       my mother says
she can’t believe she let us
go looking for our sister       in the woods
we thought she might be dead 

or almost dead       with torches       in the dark
I was proud to lead the search 
and I am never there       when it matters
people go mad       I go overseas

decay is a form of movement       like a dance

I have a phrase       ‘the woods decay,
the woods decay and fall’       loose in my mind
the sputter of a candle in the centre
of an abandoned camp       a rush 

of dogs through ancient bush       brush-strokes
gone as soon as they touch air   
and every shape       above the ground       keen to return
to ground       the mutter of torches       music     

in the carried distant deep

ROB YATES

Rob Yates is a British writer hailing from Essex. He is currently based in Charlottesville, where he is completing his MFA at the University of Virginia. Some of his writing can be found via www.rob-yates.co.uk.