He can’t see the wood for trees. Trapped in a thicket,

He can’t see the wood for trees. Trapped in a thicket,

He can’t find the bush for the bushes. A ram

Caught by the horns, he can’t turn around, unpick the thorns

Or retrace his steps. Can’t even guess the way he came.

All he can see is the thicket, close to his face.

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The more he turns the more he’s trapped

Here where it’s thickest. Just a mass of knotted spines.

Spikes entwined. Brambles attached to a Prince

Who can’t beat the barbs or make out his Briar

Princess. Wrapped round the knees. A clenching of branches.

x

Can’t scent any Princess. Can’t see her prints

In the thicket. Caught by the horns of the thorns.

Torn by the brambles, the briars. Dense, ever denser

In intensity, and nothing at the centre, the thicket is immense.

He never should have listened to those liars.

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