The Blackthorn’s white

against the lane

 

& lightning strikes

the schoolhouse oak:

 

a dead crow’s feathers

blight my field

 

harbingers of death

as Princes leave

 

while full moon glowers

through empty tree.

 

‘’April is the

cruellest month’’

 

where hope dissolves

on sleet torn glass

 

& you & I

are cast aside

 

as wild winds whip

our story.

 

 (Listen here)