Poem By Anthony Dalby
Now I am gouged out.
Silt slopped to the side
A ruin, safe only for owls.
Saplings reaching out from the harsh cracks
wreaked in my side.
The nightingale presses its chest against the
thorn until it splits and falls useless;
a feast for ants, for secret larvae.
As the rotten fruit falls to the ground
the seed is safe within.
An orchard of potential