Your bones
Cling still
To that wall.

A forever scene
Of your
Last stand.

The colour of time.
A pale reminder

That you tried

To climb higher
Than anyone

Is allowed.


The Silver Birch Sees

Old white bones. 
So thin and worn.
In lazy dry wind.
Clack together.
A rhythmic applause
At slow small efforts,
Made far below.
Where few look up
To see the crowd.