Come into my bracken arms
And feel the tenderness sprout from dry bark
Dormant for so long denied behind a forest eyed glide
Hidden by pride, or flaws and social mores
But it germinates. Where your lily-white
Hand dares to trace a path through
Thorns or thistles, greying vapour dew
That fire scorched to produce that hue
Yet your floral aspect, a blush daisy glance
With open Tess eyes, all spring day skies
To mask the storms. Where I showcase frost
You conceal sores, bites and spores. So our
Season, the end of my discontent, is no merriment
As you need more. Branches retract to snap, sapped
In a new winter as blanched snow (cold, no
Woeful creak or noise) covers the parapet floor.
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