This long, overgrown, wild grass
Is haunted by scores of scorpions
Who look at you wide eyed
Before scurrying into
Dense alyssum stalks.
And this gate is tangled shut too
By gripping tendrils of trumpet vines
Interspersed with climbing roses
Bursting red, purple and white
Luminescent, awash in light
While being singed by the sun.
All along, I have felt fixed stares
Digging into the nape of my neck
One may be of that youngish hawk
Who has made his nest in thick palm fronds
The others may be of some middle aged vultures
Looking down from the heights of elms
One may be of that grey old owl
Shuddering his way, into decay
And the last may be of some youthful wolf
Prowling behind the cotton wood trees
With hungry eyes and thudding heart
Just ready to pounce on his prey.