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The Linnet's Wings

The Tree, The House, The Sheep, The Book, The Hand by Oonah V Joslin

The tree

its branches spread towards the sky

glimmers beneath the myriad nightly stars

fans its protective canopy

over the meadow flock in daylight hours.

The house

elderly under its grey slate roof

glories in the longevity of stone

shelters human and animals alike

lends its sturdy walls to transient bone.

The sheep

that spent the summer on the hills

comes down to pasture for its lambs in spring

leaves us a coat behind for autumn's mists

knowing the hardships wintertime can bring.

The book

of every year is written thus,

each page is turned each one a season past

the book that's blank beyond our daily sketch,

fills up so quickly and is done so fast.

The hand

that scribes the pages wrinkles so

its frailty counts the passage of the days

its pains become a daily letting go

'til dirt divides the parting of the ways.

The Linnets Wings