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A chill flame burns in the hearth
Where the embers of warmth
Should smoulder golden
In the morning
Carrying the gentle night
To a new dawn.
Dew falls, salt and bitter
On the sapling
Torn from earth
To become a spear
Launched to flight,
Seeking its prey
With a hunter’s hunger.
What of the branch
Where the songbirds rest
Singing to the sun
Amid the flowers?
What of the fruits;
Its berries, drops of blood
From a prey too strong to die,
Stain the hunter’s hand
With the shame of destruction
And the madness of knowing
No other way.
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France & Vincent 