That was the tree.

Framed by your bedroom window

Commanding the field.

Interrupting the plough.

 

That was the room.

Where a version of you lay

Framed by a box.

Below the bedroom window.

 

Connected by memory

Like twisted roots.

A life, a death

The beginning.

The end.

 

By Fiona Lochhead Feb 2012

 

Advertisements