Yew

St Oswald's church is huddled in the vale
of Grasmere. Yew trees along avenues
relinguish cones between the granite tombs 
in shadows decked, their muted roots reseed
as tiny trailing fingers feel for loam
with olive tips that dip through waves of sage.

He planted seven trees where shadows grow
beneath the marbled slabs, sad stones bewail
the loss of fragile flesh; but tendrils drill through clay and claw towards the gilted sun.
The summer breeze appears to animate
the listless leaves that twist like mournful hands. 

Above a steeple's cross; below the earth
where darkly Hecate conspires rebirth.

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