Needles of Yew

Lay a soft bed
Of years
Over a grave-

Green to Brown
To Yellow- a pleasing transition

Echoing

The change
Underground

pearls
are my favourite
of all my jewels.
the way they're made,
from scratching, slashing, ocean water splashing fuels
intricate transformation, done in no haste,
but time.
not one is the same,
just like my curls.

Woke within a dream,
amidst dense forest.

a tree stood,
older than time,
casting its shadow.

a touch of it,
showed all it had lived—
bloodied sword clash,
clouds that wept for years,
flora it wore,
wildflowers it shielded,
the warmth it once kissed.

yet it stood still.
as I faded,
back into the dream.

As I stand beneath,
sky's embrace,
open arms,
claim me as its own.

each drop,
cold,
yet warmth blossom in me.

each raindrop,
feels as a caress,
a lover's kiss,
as it drenchs my soul.

To be in a place
Where you feel
The warmth and the grace
Is a thing that
Don't often
Get replaced.

A weekend of Millney
Grows thicker
Through the years.

Imagine seeing your vices
All Piled up
Or In a crate
or a vat
The eternal filing cabinet
Lists that
The Stirling equivalent
Of what you paid out
Could have bought you a boat
And not a cheap one at that.