Wildling

Haven’t touched my friends

in going on seven months

last sat, as if painted

in an October beer garden

parents too, all crowded in

shouting, drinking, spilling

mouths chip-full and open

talking about summers and years

all wild arms and old stories.

Towards the end though

where trailed off, whittled

there sat, as if chosen

in a second stumbled pub

those closest bound, unified

knotted years, breaks, hopes

growing pains connected

talking about winters and moves

all wild plans and new stories.

Months later, talk of past lives

and our latest, travels too

often sat, disconnected

in own empty arms

then raucous, just enough

chattering, slurring, planning

caught tight by could be

tangled wires and tongues

all wilderness and wonder ...

We wait.

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Magda is a poet and witch, read more of her work here.

Stay updated with her musings on folklore, science and the things in between by following her instagram: @Xan6ua