Felicity Powell

December 3, 2012 § Leave a comment

The Undead Forests

You can still smell the smoke
Trapped between the paper leaves;
The wood sawn and pulped
Into a mass of crinkled autumn.

But still the dead trees grow:

The oaken cases stand in rows
With shelves like branches, stemming fruit;
The books, where inky tree sap flows
To hidden seeds, who take their root.


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