You do not think of me
With the thrush song in the hawthorn
Or the mistletoe ripe on the bough.
I am lost amongst thorns and poisons;
Unsung and pale.
So our love then; a beach we danced across,
leaving not a footprint.
It was a fire that burned everything up;
leaving no warmth.
It was a tree grown tall in the forest;
falling without a sound.
It is me standing now
Facing dusk
Anchoring my long shadow.