Winterbloom Boxes
Red octangles lying on the beach
The surf and sun tracing my skin,
Liquid burst of a over-stuffed leech,
The chirps and growls just brood within,

Suited trouble bides the farmer's tangled
Whistles as the trees run farther,
Their roots snap foward so torn and mangled,
As they fear the shadow of a gentle carver

Eating lead-based winterbloom boxes,
The triage of fighters can't fight the not there,
Ample bridges disallow their foxes,
Hot-water orchards knowingly stare.

© Saxon Drury-Godden, 06