Thursday, 24 September 2015

Dead, but not yet still

I love to see ivy on dead trees.
Sublime, insinuating.
Covering, to become other.
Slender tendrils probing forward;
Like fingers of an evil spiite
On long scrawny hands.
Trying to raise the dead?
What hope of succeeding?
While the bitter churchyard birds
Peer with bright eyes
From sinister leafy places.
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