Poetry

Did fires burn through the last ancient woodland? /
Boughs that breathed the air before us, /
Reached deep into soil our fingers never touched.

I can feel what you mean when we/ hear the same bells/
ringing peace through the night while/
we taste the cold air…

there is a wall /
between us and a horde— /
mass of angels come to usher us all / at once /
back to nothing

They have nowhere else to go./
No instinct to burrow./
No mask to fit between/
small lungs and the poison air.

A land, clean, civil /
No oily, heavy tar breaths. /

a smooth circular motion they tell me / is best for wetting the crooked flesh of it