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What want you here? Your feet crush heads Of wild garlic Break virgin arms Of temple bluebell I come to shrive I come to shrive You let me be Speechless midstream Quiet head talk I lose shape Lose tongue See life in limblessness Decay a feast see greatness ...
Rowan in the Hedgerow
Hawthorns hustle for light and air Prick to keep me away. Dense are they; hold light in flat leaves. Tall and slim I need to be To over-reach them. I take early sun as it grows Stronger after long dark nights. Foam flowers are mine Before the reeking ...
copyright © 2018 Christine Cooke
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