That fire, they said, was red as red as red
as red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;
that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,
faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;

I feel it, first as a stir,
turning deep in the murky water.
Surfaces up for air, a twitch
on the lake in my head.
A flip, and it disappears.

The biggest berries are in the centre
of a tunnel of thorny bushes.
A shark gaping wide,
promising not to nip.

I am in a forest;
My brothers will never find me here.
Over my head is a green umbrella;
I feel the earth under my bare feet.

Spring is baby,
bright, fresh and new,
gurgling with the melting snow,
singing with the first cuckoo.

A plant called love
A plant called hate

I grew them both 
in my garden.
The plant called love was hard work.