16 October 2016

Poem-A-Day #229 : Up All Night

Up All Night

The branch fingers the window
                                                   all night
that small bent sound - in the morning
names are engraved across the surface

Out the cloisters and into the sunlight
there - in the small oldest rooms of Westminster
a glass coffin houses old wax in the shape of a dead prince

The corner calls out
                                 in curling lines
time has etched its graffiti in the form of some
other dead man's initials

That we want to leave something
is not in doubt
                        the tree
                                     the man
both have seeds to sow to tend to reap

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