13/04/2016

#peom #poetry #amwriting #ilkleywriters #Ilkley Scry

Scry

I found the cord of honeysuckle, you made,
garroted in the stump. One flower remained
hyaline, embossed where bark had flayed
before the tree lay drowned, in waves
of sinking sand and mud. Ungrievous grave
so simple there, where land meets sea in play
of silted dawn, of squelching dusk; opaque in clay.