Oakchild
Child, pulled from the lap
of divided paths, under
the strength of scarred arms.
You are warm with stone root,
waiting to mix the brew
of old rain, grass and crossroads
under your boots.
You wile under branches that
are heavy with green
and obscure growth.
This calico angel,a farm girl,
waits in a church of milk cans
( a silver circle)
for the diesel song of the lorry.
You stay cool in the shade, a virgin.
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