Hands gnarly
body of seasoned soft wood
greying. These many weathering
years have bleached me dry.
Dry enough for the bone fire
And later, let the Dorset hill
give rest. Ash with mould
in a hornbeam copse
where old, old woodlanders
re-kindle their kin
Just 44 words for Lisa's Quadrille prompt: Season
PoetryPix 