Thursday, 30 November 2017

second go at the poem - edit 30/11/2017

there are some places from which there is no coming back

I stood, hose in hand,
water pushing out the bronze nozzle,
catches the sunlight, sparkles,
a tail of hope; leaves that should
have been green and gently serrated,
instead bronzed and curled.

Crowning each branch, petals
that had never opened, defeated;
limp and browned, like hats
fallen over faces that frowned, forever
swallowing what colour
might have been presented.

Everything clutched inwards,
shrunken by the search for shadows
where none existed; on the burnt ground,
around its defeated trunk, leaves shed
before their time; each a story to tell,
each the same tale, defeat ruins everyone.

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