The arch of the
Yew shield winter
stalker and summer shade
rains buried in cloud
reward ancient forager
or cursed by hood of insular muse
not to break the insurant.
Slate grey and moss root
in hills bludgeoned
painful shivered
broken leaves that lie in between
the shattered splay of rigid needles
that linger long
that spike in the draught
that flip of season's coin
famously the outcast.
This stain by wrinkled rot
hurry the grubby draw of charcoal
in the dive in stubbled plain
rage a storm
and clasp fury
to choke
winds veined bleeding
by glacial blades
that skate upon ancestral lair.
This steep blizzard will thrash foliage
that fall into the sky
that is feared between the night cleaver
that slices gauging
until the fever will break.
But through no gentle mercy
can survive
no darkness blade
no precipitous saviour
can scourge that iron promise
and hope to make to create to break free to weaken
but remain resistant
not as a shield but as moments
that drag the outside
to protect no one except
the plight of its glower
and the persistent age that landscape its threat.