In the Darkness of their Own Doing
In an ancient square
There is a yew tree wood
Of such antiquity
The tree roots writhe
In the darkness of their own doing
Up yet down, to infinity
Amongst the green limbs a man breathes
The steam of his breath
His only cloth
The rime and earth
Of his fingernails
His only food
Waiting to be never seen
And preserving the holy hood
He drips with one thought
And pours over the old stones
Like lichen.
Copyright © Diane Leggett | Year Posted 2023
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