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Out my window
the moon swoons in enfolding arms of sky -
a glassed-out world I cannot touch,
seen through pain and this pane
my four sycamores, sick to the core and wanting more
than the moon-smitten sky is willing or able to give.
With this they live, and compete for love in their darkening peat -
ghosts of the garden, guardians of the eastern gate.
The dark and bark begin to flake...The pane perspires
pain droplets like fever-beads...Nerves like wires
sizzle in my hands - little cerise, scorched trees.
Stirred by a breeze of unease, my rootless reflection
melds with the trees. Now light is darkening in the window
the moon is a cold blinded eye on high,
blind to the needs of the sycamores that plead
as their rotating blades are freed -
desperate spinning seeds that scythe the sky
and drift to loam, their cold-holding home.
Night begins to bleed and seep. The garden weeps.
The outer world recedes; pain splinters lodge deep.
The pane is a sheeted and shattering mirror.
Copyright ©
Charlotte Puddifoot
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