The Dead by Phil Wood

It is that time that comes
softly, slowly, like a feral scent
into the breeze, the forest wedded white.
It is that time of night
when the curtain of leaves fall, merge and blur
into that mushroom bloom of bliss.
It is that time of frosted promises
fracture with whispers, it is that time
when roots unclothe with waking breath.
For when the theatre of silhouettes
are seeking warmth,
it is that time
I have this sense of you.


Phil Wood was born in Wales. He works in a statistics office, enjoys playing with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, including: London Grip, The Lampeter Review, Three Drops From A Cauldron.

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