Some things unmissed
Need never be found

There's some things I miss
Can’t get out of my head
Can’t stop thinking
Over and over
              It's torture
                           Cause I miss them so much

       That's why I tell myself
You're only missed a little
                       Then I can think of you often

Nobody or nothing
Can convince me
That nothing
                   In it's self
                   Contains nothing
We’re just too small
              Too limited
              To see all that surrounds
                                        From within our body

Being this way
They say
Is a natural occurrence
                               Certain
                               Predictable

     As when the path of
Worldly planets collide
              A shadow cast
              Upon the other
The dark eclipse
                                Inevitable

How does one soften
Such emotion
When its surface
             Is taught
Like the spine of an open book
                       Placed face down
For ease of remembrance

The oak has
Words of thunder
Divine connections
                      He shall be your double bass

The willow oh the the willow
Her immortality
And vitality
                      She will be your cello

The windswept Hawthorn
Sacrifice's self to
Sweeten souls
                      She will be your viola

The Rowans shall play together
Enchant with
A final spell
                      They will be your violins

And you
You shall conduct the wilderness
With such intensity
                   The world will slow to attend

There is an old Post Office table
                        Covered in things
Smashed willow pattern
Nothing fits
Looks arty scattered

Rusty looking thing
Small
Unknown origin
Probably a dried slug

Dinky No 39 been dug up
Top down
Never valeted
Better full of earth

Things are strange
Things happen
Things are different now

She’d
Play hide and seek
                          By day
Within borders of contentment
              Or knit words without sound

She stayed but one weekend
                                At solstice
                        In a tree house
I never saw her wings
But she’d flown
Leaving only a slice of gingerbread cake
                        Settled under a rowan tree

The ground burns
The soles of my feet
                 It’s not hot
                 I’m not shoeless
Simply put
My roots don’t sink deep enough within it