Lines

When we awoke that
morning and parted,
the curtains, it was
me who spotted it first;

The lines of our
lawn, skewered
in the centre by a
small charcoal tree,
ever-black instead of
green.

"What is it?" you asked
seeing the lines of my face
alter as the sunlight fell in.

"I'm not sure," I offered.

We stood on the lawn in
white flannel robes,
bleary eyed - like boxers
facing an unknown opponent.
Like priests uncovering a relic
that alters everything -

"Where did it come from?"
you sman, alomst fear
in your throat, swallowed,
but it remains:

I kneel down and pull
at its roots, knowing it
will not budge.

"Some kind of prank?"
Your breath posts into
the still air past our
hanging washing.