In violence
the yews, hewn,
Perform their shapes.

Upon the ridge
an old syncline
frog spawn, forgotten pheasants,
remnants from the end of The Ice,
our family, there…

… by the chimney
in walls, by Harold’s Cross,
they bear witness, for my brother.

Poison, for some reason,
well fertilized,
slow growers, they’ll outlast the tombs.

And yet,
familiarity breeds comfort
they are friendly, solid,
in their pure, dark, green.

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