To fight or to fly?
Ethereal light breaks the dark canopy
as she glides between the claws of bracken.
Her babe, a rag doll, limp in florals
thorns - chestnut as the horse she left aside the brook-
tearing delicate silk, floral and chiffon.
To fight or to fly?
She flies.
Streamers whip her calves as her feet tear the undergrowth
she glides no more.
Stumbling through tendrils, she clings to her babe,
Both too silent to hear one another’s last fleeting breath.
As they float to the carpeted ground,
Skeletal leaves break their final fall.
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