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Honey sweet bark drilled by beaks
bleeds the rowan’s life away.
Who do we kill: bird or tree?
Decision made, the sap-suckers,
claws trapped in sackcloth, fluff
their feathers, leave their feast.
Red beads on the mountain ash:
a rosary of bright berries.
Bitter on the tongue, sunset’s
first flourish tinting my dream.
Midnight gnaws at the moon.
Its white skull drifts, a stone knife,
sharpened, in the sky’s iron hand.
At shadowed garden’s shallow
edge, the sorbus aucuparia bends,
its spirit walking night’s waters.