The Eyes and the Ears
by Fiona M Jones
Art by Kerry Mairie
It’s only the knots in the woodwork,
It’s only the eyes of the trees,
and they cannot see,
and would not tell tales if they could.
But they’re there
and they stare,
watchful, witchlike,
solemn, sad or still,
and they follow
and they search the
inner hollows of your fears.
It’s only the shifting of shadows,
It’s only the mottling of light,
and the long-buried instinct
that triggers your fight or your flight.
But it’s there
in your genes
and it runs
in your blood
from the blood of your
far-distant people who
died in the caves and the trees.
It’s only the 21st century
with its never-closing eyes
and the crowding of the senses
with alerts, allays, alarms.
But the threatening
faces of clocks, screens
and cameras surround
you with image
and sound
and the eyes and the
ears of the wilderness
pursue you like sabre-toothed
tigers intent on the kill.
