Naked in the Springtime Orchard
That which curved now stretches in the birth lines of falling
bruised green, and red, into inked shadow black.
A cyclist purrs past in gaudy lyrca'd gear-change flash.
Somewhere out of time, a still caring clock strikes
the while of passing chimes.
She does not hear the voice that calls.
But just the same, she takes a parcelled packet
from the brood, she carries always in her bag.
Pulling her fingers across the forgiving rotted ridges
of the long dying tree: a silvered white trail she leaves:
of ashes.
And then she licks her tips again,
to dip again into him,
she traces through the pen-knifed names:
laughing.
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