Tuesday, 3 December 2013


The year is turning to a musty yellow,
There will be no more calls to rump.
The mornings are a chilly sweep,
Freezing your eyes with snappy indifference.

You were able to pull it apart and
Glance away our sentiment, the core
Is rattled by the blast. It is too much
To cling on to, my wits are at an end.

The passage to my burrow is stood off,
Ringed with knotted wood. The cold can
Not get into where I now finger and curl
The hairs of grass-root, and nurture their
Growth with warm tears.

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