The Barbaric Yawp

Mulberries,

Pose outside my window;


The perks of cocooning,

Away from the daily show.

They saunter, then wade,


Like soot that burns and plummets;

Soldiering against the gales,

A dungeon for the magpie’s stolen nest.

I’ve heard that they connect,

With synergy beyond the lovers’ reach.


Once snow-white, now dripping red,

Branches whorled by unlevelled lobed-leaves.

Is there truth to the monk’s words?

Are my roots the only one?

I could start to count their rings,

And find my life concluded in between.

I digress — and falter—

Whilst they remain, stronger.


Tomorrow, I’ll return to Leaves and drilled brews;

A few mulberries might flinch and shed,

And cater to the magpie’s crew,

Or slowly melt into their earthen bed.