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)
Victoria Mosley 