Plath

All the footprints in the snow
led me to your grave,
iron-cold February
blowing your ghost
across the Pennines

A murder of crows
cawed in the oaks as
I stole a thorn
from the solitary rose-bush
rooted in your bones

Drove it into my arm
sealing our poets’ pact

Patrik Gryst (Nom de Plume)

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