Beneath an ancient oak tree

I sat down with the old tree
there on a blanket she had woven
of clovers and sweet violets
where the fat bees cobble about.
She wrapped me in her scented boughs
and gently held all parts of me:
the flesh, the brittle pieces,
the embers, the salt water and the bone;
with soft and steady breaths she blew
the shadows from my shoulders
and asked only in return of me…



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Caroline Mellor

Mother, top writer and author of poetry collection The Honey in the Bones. Poetry, prose and personal essays. www.carolinemellorwriter.com