The Dry Tree

Thorns in rings,
rough, and sharp as winter's bite.
White tipped, and venomous
like the night sky's libidinous delight.

The magpie screams
as it sweeps to the trees.
The clouds are bright behind the leaves.
Gold letters jangle,
as they hang from the tips.

Her eyes cast low, she holds the child.
No kisses from her rough flaked lips.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.