Copse

Whilst a-wefting woe on woodlands edges

Your cold curtained breath across the breeze

Slipped to speech, aligned in misty wedges

Salt blistered hopes across the seas.

Each floss and cream of night-time airing

Became the treasured touch of empty hands

Instead fixed in skin, sun-spots layering

Which you had plucked from day and brought to land.

O! But how grey were the copses features

Which lit, the candle coiled within your flesh

Ringed the clean smooth bodies of love’s creatures

And crossed upon their path, aligned to death.