A strange take on spring, but here goes …
She stands lips
red as heart
hair a black
waterfall in a
starless night.
Her voice like
dry bones
calls the rain.
‘From cold stone
I walk again.
A child spoke
my name and
dark blood crawled
slow waking a
whispering pulse
like the stirring
of grass long and lush
in a half-
remembered place.
From the deep
silence
I broke through
bare rock a
crocus rising
throwing off
the winter in
red flame.’
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