ASH AND FEATHERS

ASH AND FEATHERS
Ash and feathers, heaven scent,
a sign bad weather’s bent
on taking centre stage.
In this last light,
split yolk pours through rents
in racing grey rags as a northerly
conducts the beeches.
Dead beat ground slumps
between icy sheets and in
crumpled down, sleeps.
Night and all light is borrowed.
A sixpence moon, its ashy swoon
adrift on a sea of feathers.

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