Dark Firmament
moth drunk
I wander
empty as a well
the path of whispers
following me as I walk
the crops, god-gilded,
brush me, like tree feathers or tongues
here I enter the church of struck leaves;
a forest of crosses
mile upon mile of still wonder and
rising shade.
my hands are shaking;
at the mullion of lead-land against sky
they are sorry epitaphs
of the person I have become.
I knock the rough bark,
feel the dead holds of knots;
wake at the smoke
of green at the top,
the stars of flowers
pushing through.
these trees are ten men tall, and growing;
they are the towered deep,
I lose myself in the water;
the hollow lowness a cenotaph
for my sins
which blot my lips
and black my heart.
Annie Hayter
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