Yellow metal teeth
have ripped out
the green of your heart.
The soaring oaks
are stranded husks
grasping at steel patches
of morning
and the drizzle
has feathered
your sinews to mud.
The boy who I used to be
swirled marbles on your slopes,
lit Beltane bonfires
and watched hawks hover
in early morning silence.
As brown wounds
bleed earth,
I touch the roots
of your bones
and watch the rain wash away
all that is left.
