Snowdrop sonnet rewrite: Section 6.1

So I'm making a start on rewriting some of Snowdrop's sonnets. Because it has to be done, innit. The previous version of this poem was making Snowdrop sound weedy and needy, too childish. Hopefully this redraft builds on the things she was telling herself earlier in the poem.

Caught in a Hug of Madness

"I do not know you people: soldiers come
to life from history books, I think, and yet
you found me, fed me. Kindness, or ... a threat
perhaps, for something doesn't fit. This slum
of a church -- I knew this place before it congealed.
These stones feel hard and real and safe inside:
ruins they were, their roofless pillars wide
to catch the sun and rain. What magic healed
its broken state -- does your belief in God
build miracles from mists? Oh no. No!
Some prayers to a wood statue glued to a cross
cannot explain this mess, it rides roughshod
through every thing I know. No crop can grow
so quick ... this is a lie, and I'm still lost!"

Snowdrop 10.3: The Tiger Hunts

The Tiger Hunts

She walks the sods and the soils of the Marsh,
each saucer paw puddling the dirt
into oval dents. When ditches block
her path she leaps them, pitching her limbs
in a stretch across the stagnant waters --
a surge of blacks and sorrels burst
through the chilled air, chasing the ducks
from sleep in the reeds. She sniffs at the earth,
whiskers spreading the stiffened shafts
of winter wheat in whorls and swirls,
touching, tasting the tangs of this world.

She stills mid-step when she sees the prey:
a lamb-swelled sheep lifts up its head,
cud on the tongue, twitch-ears sculling
for a hint of sound outside the known
creaks and crackles of its cold-hugged home.

Slowly, she shifts -- a splint of an inch:
a slide of muscle, a slip of claw
through dock and clover, and crouch, and settle
the tail, and wait. Watch for the tuck
of a head, the scrape of hoof on ice ...

... and dash! Her furs flash as she streaks
across the turf; a tap of her pad
and they tumble down, a tousle of wool
and hoof and scat. The herd stampedes,
their bleat alarms alerting others:
danger! Danger! Dogs on the loose!
Teeth on the throat! Tearing, ripping.
Run to the gate; gather and huddle!

But she is no hound. She hauls her catch
back to the ditch, dips through the reeds
and into the water, etching a curl
of ripples from bank to bank as she paddles
her course to the sluice, and the sea beyond.

Snowdrop 10.1: On the Cusp of the Marsh

On the Cusp of the Marsh

No sound -- ripples careen across
the canal's water, a clack of duckwings
freighting the air, fighting for lift:
an arrow disrupted by a rifle's bark.

No sound -- the wires that weave the levels
together susurrate, static electrics
woven from atoms at the world's end,
charging in steps to streets and hearths.

No sound -- beyond the unyielding Wall
waves furl and surge, froth and collapse;
the shingle chatter a shadowy chant
to the deep lower of lorries, cars.

No sound can breach her bloodied ears.
A sun has banished the sourcerous mist:
ochre on blue, it bloats the sky.
No sound, no smell; no sight, no touch --
a newborn woman walks from the dawn.