Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Puck's Grove

I wear the fragrance on my neck.

Branches jut in barky-fingers;
Woodbine suckles nightly screams
and moans; the faithful Violets nod.

A noxious burn of Muskrose scent:
wilting beauty, youth capricious -
the dead breeze blows... blows.

Clog of sound, clog of breath,
cloistered dome of stifled air.

The Elms: they strain, they creak, they crane
their hooded crowns upon the bank,
and muffle and gag the groans.

A snake chokes upon his own skin.

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