work in progress [isn't it always?]

trees winter lace edge the land.

sharp thoughts of the unpeace
unwillingness to negotiate, forever binary.
I lose faith.

feathered voles and tails of wrens
deep under the spit on the inside of my wrist
a wish for rolling clouds, black bellied, rent

splat
onto into
mud
uncover the bones
stark
white
smooth as the inside of my wrist

slice under the curtain brief winter light.
shatter in my eyes.
shard through blood to heart:
I will not hear the unpeace makers with such distaste.
salt sweet

but give me chicory, feverfew
tongue turning bitter
tone of voice shaped by muscles in my throat

the lump in my throat
whose words stick stop?
My words stuck?
Or
I cannot swallow their tale?

tail of wren, winter bird, bloodied,
found land to the west facing east where lies the edge
of man, ire and whale – tipteerers all

find the cure or is it death?
just three stones later, that is no olive branch.
a martyr’s palm more like

mark my skin where the mud lies dinted.
they think they cannot lose face but they are skewed
they need to throw the towel in
not that there is enough land to allow the walk away
I talk away but still it is lodged a stuck laugh choke
I think it works both ways doesn’t work both ways
slick sticky mud stuck
suck my wellieboot
I am sunk in my socks