Winter trees are lean
lit dimly in weak afternoon sun
brushed deftly by early frost
unclothed and beautiful, they
hold a frigid grace, a sanctity
amongst the searching abuses
of this savage season’s
rapacious tongue.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2018
Bark
"call me not poet, leave that title for others to confer, I write words in rhyme or not and set them free, let the world concur"
Beautiful, Graham.
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