Poem for the week, 6 February 2023
The grove
Winter is the burning.
Rotten hearts of once sturdy oaks
stripped and axed and set ablaze.
Ashes fall from the sky.
Dark flurries of cremated yew
scattered on grit-covered snow.
Embers glow; soot remains.
The dead particles of old friends
keep us warm and on our feet.
Until the sun rises.
...
Until the sun rises.
Ice melts; nature wakens.
Springtime bursts with saplings, new buds
breathe unwooded joys of youth.
Pruned branches stretch fresh arms.
Treetops nod and gently whisper
secrets that winter forgot.
Leaves reach out to be touched.
Sycamore and ash are reborn
shady havens for lovers.
Until the sun goes down.
...
Until the sun goes down.
First published in 'magnetic resonance imaging' (buy here).
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