My Terabithia

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30/8/16 A poem about my own private paradise — woodchopping

Surrounded by trees

bearing witness

to the violent murder and demise

of one of their own.

Flattened grass underfoot,

shaded by my human presence,

somehow sullied

even when I come in peace.

The wicked axe,

raised high above my head

and swung whistling down

to bite deep into the blocks

of orange-red wood

and 

s-p-l-i-t...

Snapping like biscuits.

 

 

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