Untitled by Simon Fruin

Plucked from earthen womb
twisted, gently
yellow moonface,
wintery mane
pressed between a withered page
forgotten till the edges grey
your memories sepia, and fade.

An open book, you're sure to fall.

Your bonnet drifts in patches
flutters and singles with dust
in grooves of heavy footsteps
traipsed to the yard,
in your family plot.

Ash, you drift in scented breeze
and birth the next doomed, flowered breed.

Simon is a writer living in Manchester. You can find him on twitter.