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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
modern british poetry

Submitted: September 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 10, 2012



Split down the middle
Logged by the Woodsman
Whose sappling you were.
Unsure whether Oak or Yew,
Needle or leaf.
Too fast grown to be either.

Who else after him
Might have sat beneath you?
Turning the perpetual story in a tired ear;

How love always hollows 
The stump some more
Until Blue, you are all sky

And can no longer find yourself
Without the weight of clouds
Pulling down some familiar fear
Or a nickel worn moon
Casting hope as it wanes

© Copyright 2018 Alison Huntley. All rights reserved.

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