Woodblock trees stamp black cross citrus sky
and guard the crest, stand firm against marauders.
Seasons march on forwards, invading years and tears.
Talcum dusted lunar lands, weathered feldspar fields,
hoar-crusted roads turn crystal-quartz in halogen beam.
I drive you to the station lemon dawnlight breaking
unaware of just how far away your final destination’s
taking you. Our snowy owl sits guard and watches
from his sign. I thought it was an omen. If I had known
would I have turned the music low and spoken?
We talked last night. You said it’s not been long.
12 weeks 4 days 7 hours 10 minutes, I’ve been
counting. Seven million six hundred and twenty nine
thousand lonely heartbeats. No wonder that I feel
so tired and sad and bruised and fucking broken.