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)

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