TheFeatheredSleep – Hanging no wreath
don’t put up the tree this year
because in different directions
festivity trickles, a sloe-gin reminder
of loss
wintered in the dyed hair of visitors
who pinch our cheeks and proclaim
you are healed
when we know
such things rarely occur
the savage rent may
gloss over with skin
a scar as smooth as ice
can cut despite its fragility
they hand out mince pies
to carol singers who stamp
their booted feet in earnest
whilst we have no need of lights
winking and ushering
memories best left unwrapped
she has gone on with herself
a banchee howling her moon song
like a new chapter in an old book
the leather worn and much used
but still the characters implore
one more story grandma
and I am mending old clothes
to fit around my leaching soul
as ice turns back to water and
skies reveal
another season
another set of…
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