Bones of the Crone. A Poem.

Lightning struck tree

Bones of the crone,
a withered hand;
the hand of the hag
is reaching,
knarled and whitened
with age.
Long toil these hands
have known,
and pain.

Sun scorched,
curving tortuosity,
frozen gesture
reaching for the sky.
Where lightning struck
once long ago,
now bones
alone
remain.

© Janey Colbourne 2016

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