Nymph

Your tree is my streetlight; orange with the tinge of modern colour cast frantic in fires against dark forbidding skies sunk low down. You were the shield of bracken, wrought from things parted in cruelty - my pen wept for too long with you and found nothing in ink guilt, Or gilt, applied like a debt-bond on your nature - my pen wept for all of you, and yourself parted Too often scattered here and there As if unsalvagable, torn Your pieces have never been lost; you are not wasted or broken, only fractal, like the earth child you always were.