Passing

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.