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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 limbs a dark man breathes
The steam of his breath
His only cloth
The rime and earth
Under his fingernails
His only food
Waiting to be never seen
And preserving the holy hood
He drips with one thought
And pours like lichen
Over the stones of time.
Copyright ©
Diane Leggett
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