Small shite

it grows in the light
a forest of green
in a bucket of skyfe
twisting onward
and upward
in fat porkers flight
from a puddle of blue
and the suns lonely sight
burley will bait
spare roots will bite
as your column flies skyward
as an overdrawn kite
fly on my sweet beauty
push on with your might
on to the heavens
away from the fight
lest fury should take you
seek end to your life

my wilted hands trembling
won’t protect from the night
but,

young seed from my branch
you will grow to great heights
with the blood I will leave
at the fall of death’s scythe