. oswald’s tree .

never fails to excite me.with all the talk of leaves

here, falling, i am interested to see another breed

of folk that love and gather.

remind me of roseberry road, the younger days.

sat in the upper room, read his letter to his mum,

about the trenches, the first world war, wished

to drown his sorrow in that bloodied mud. the floor

tilted, a scrap lay crumpled.

each room has a different door.

we left, fell the last few steps.




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