Inside a fusty cupboard, the word
is curled on a blue sky tin
where a boy chases a bird, sprinkles
grains on its tail to catch it and keep,
though he never did. Nor could she,
yet once she believed in a name
like a spell and the magic of salt.
Still, if she unlatches the door
just a crack – sure, it will be dark –
maybe she could reach in, scatter
a handful, strain for the faint notes
of robins in a spinney where
enchanter’s nightshade grows,
at the edge of what is there.