by VANESSA PROCTOR
A scattering of snow attempts
to white out memory. Even the fog
is half-hearted this morning.
Charred tree trunks and branches
create sculptures of loneliness and
silence falls heavy on the land.
Yet shoots, brilliantly new,
are beginning to reach out
through the mud. Soon grass will
colonise this place, leaves will create
broad canopies, the green far better
at forgetting than any fog or snow.