Spring Letters by Antony Owen

Those trees write essays of blossom and fall
and sometimes strike twigs of lightening
to show us that roots lie in all things,
branches bellow in our blood
of strange white blooms,
clockwork leukaemia
hands stop moving,
radioactive graves
jigsaw pictures of
petri dish ghosts.
Scalp Hiroshima
back to bloom
I was human
remember
our roots
are similar
inside we are all the same –
red blossoms are made of blood capillaries.

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