Cut Down From the Bough

a poem, suicide trigger warning

Cut Down from the Bough

January makes this
dark night halo

winters end 
to all speaking 

the wind whistles
through your 
plastic wind pipe

hollow tunnel spirit 

		paper cups and string

			between where you reside 

and here

our bodies - nothing but mud 

poetry, what is poetry?
words just remind you 
you are not here

or, that you really are free 

a stag runs into the sunset 

a black pool, a fractured mirror
grey, wet, snow 

I soak you

breath is only air 
its sound halved with
your leaving 

your bruises, so new
crocus, in their blooming 
ring the pure skin of birch 

(first published on Verve Press Website, in honour of mens suicide awareness)

(a willow by the river Elbe)

Not the happiest beginning to the year, but I am remembering my friend that took his own life. I am sending love to his family and to his spirit wherever it resides.

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