Little Lamb

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She spoke in tongues
of old
of stories long told
Red raw and brimming with gold
Her breathe darted against the cold
Trees fallen by the wayside
lonely in the night
silenced by the wind,
her voice – hushed
like a little lamb,
The frostbite strangling throats
Her eyes close,
The bend of the tree coils like rope
Wildflowers fraught to grow
Under the land
she lays for evermore
Walked upon
The stories unfold.

J.CALVERT 2016

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