On the morning you leave, I go into the garden.
The sound of your car fades in the rattle
of raspberry stalks like papery bones.

Here, where the woods begin to take over,
raspberries grow all summer. I used to fill bowls
and bowls of them, more than I could ever eat
and the birds went hungry.

One night I dreamed I entered the woods,
emerged in a meadow where a herd of deer
grazed in the red rising sun.

Now each dewdrop reflects the winter world.
I roll myself into a glass globe and fall,
wait in the grass for berries to ripen
to the colour of my childhood bedroom.

I hear hooves lifted and set down again, though
they go nowhere. From the shadows they watch me
with their pink-jelly eyes, their raspberry eyes—
the deer, I mean. The thirsty deer.