I never told you that
when I was born, one ear
bore a strange pointed flap
promptly, though harshly trimmed.
Perhaps an afterthought
some quick cell cast behind
by lynx or lion, who would
flare tuned ears to danger,
down in the desperate wood.
The danger, though, was man.
But sometimes, when I sit
quiet, attent, I can
stroke one ear with a thumb,
as though my thickened skin
still throbs, to hear it come.

Alison Brackenbury

 If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury  would be pleased to hear from you.