Watch the white cabbage waltz on the wind,
wings beating, battering
the air with a ferocity
that I’ve seen, felt
many times before.

How slight, how innocent, delicate
as a bruise.
How angry, how persistent
to nip through netting
and devour the flesh underneath, my salad
days turning to terrifying nights.

I want to wound the white cabbage,
tear off the pummelling wings,
stamp the stick frame beneath my boot,
trap it within a thick metal mesh.
I want to feel my chest ease from its grip and
fly away.

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Louise (she/her) is a writer based in Scotland. When not writing, she can be found at her local indie cinema or trying (and failing) to learn more about photography. Twitter: @LouiseHurrell