The Lost Wood
The trees cover their former selves.
Heads clouded with dust,
feet on limestone, sinking.
The quarry mouth now silent.
The trees clasp the hill
against their diminishing selves.
Each winter the farmer reclaims
the land where we hid:
between roots, bared bones,
the harshness between worlds
Reblogged this on smithsurf and commented:
Poem number 87: the Writers for Calais Refugees blog.
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