The tree’s in leaf and neat
where the robin sings
a lure close under thorns
while day ghosts by stones
cold as myth, clumped
in the yew tree’s shade
as grass falls down
a field by the Tor
where wind flicks
edges of haze;
in blurred time
each bough breaks white,
branches thicken
snow and the dead
behind my eyes.
You are drawn
by the bird’s bright call.
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