Snapped

The trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
rebellious motion.

Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s
rejuvenation.

From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
their arching
breaking limbs of woe:

Left now for wasted all
dying in the unkind cold…

 

Poppy Jan 2017~xx~

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