by Lorna Shaughnessy
Like Sylvia’s moon, she was turning wild and bald,
she looked for light beyond silhouetted trees
but the trees of the mind were blacker, and they called.
Caught in a tunnel of fear she slowly crawled
into the darkest corners of disease –
like Sylvia’s moon she was turning wild and bald.
All sense of logic left her, reason stalled,
the tape looped endlessly round and round the reel,
the trees of the mind got blacker, and they called.
Her hair grew thin, her mouth filled up with gall,
she no longer knew if she could really feel;
like Sylvia’s moon she was turning wild and bald.
The yew tree in the church yard, dark and tall,
cast shadow and silence on Sylvia’s very being
and the trees of her mind were ink-black when they called.
They called but she did not go, she did not fall
the long, long way of Sylvia’s sad release
but turned her back on the moon, so wild and bald
to hear the voices of her children call.
