REED


There are babies growing in the reed beds again.
They grow in cocoons like the nests of harvest mice,
a little looser in the weave.
 
The cocoons have been swelling since the spring;
the first frosts have come and gone but the cold will be back.
 
I feel it on the wind.
 
The welcome boards at nature reserves
have posters attached, headed ‘Advice’.
Should you stray off the path,
do not make eye contact with the foetuses.
 
Of course, I’m still walking there.
I did yesterday.
I stopped a while in one of the hides.
 
Many cocoons had burst; the air filled with thistledown.
Below me, the water was as still as glass.
And under the water, babies.
Curled up tight, thumbs in mouths,
floating under the surface, turning lazily as though breathed on by an unseen current.
 
Then I strayed from the path.
 
A cocoon was bursting.
A male child grasped a reed with one fist.
Crying, a high sound.
Below him, the water.
 
Waiting.
 
I’m far, far too old for this.
But it is done;
I did not let him drop.
I put him under my jacket,
naked against my skin.
 
And on the way home, I sang.



• Vanessa Gebbie's debut collection of short fiction is longlisted for the Frank O'Connor Award.