woodblock trees stamp black cross citrus sky,
guard the crest, stand firm against marauders,
seasons march on forwards laying waste the years,
talcum dusted lunar lands, weathered feldspar fields,
hoar-crust roads glint old-foolsgold, xanthene tears.
driving to the station, lemon dawnlight breaking,
I’m unaware of just how far your destination’s
taking you. our snowy owl sits knowing, watching
from his sign, it must have been an omen,
should I have turned the music low and spoken?
we talked last night, it’s not been long, you said,
twelve weeks four days six hours ten minutes
and still counting, seven million bloody beats
of waiting, longing, missing twinning rhythm,
no wonder I feel weary, beaten, broken.