The only thing that
grew, in the deep
shadows of your absence -
a tree.
Its branches
tangling stars,
capturing moonlight
filtering
the bright corruscations
of pain.
Bereft of leaves
dripping
the sap of
memories
and in perpetual
storms
tossing broken
branches
plunging these arrows
deep into my flesh.
The sharp throat-slitting
razor of dawn
cuts free these arrows.
Pulled from my flesh
-these will be my armoury.
(C) Sandy McCutcheon.
Last Revised:January 2001
