The Ribbon Tree



 I cross my silk bow
 on the boney finger
 of the ribbon tree

 The tree on the common
 by the bench by the pond
 where the villagers mark 
 at this time of year

 The young siblings
 brother and sister
 turn their backs 
 walking away 
 from mum and dad
 as I leave you there

 A pale pink ribbon 
 on an outer branch
 quivering in the wind
 I stand 
 and remember you

 Only you are not gone
 I tie the ribbon to feel
 to imagine
 a silent symbolic homicide
 rendered in the crossed threads

 I turn, I walk away unsure
 with the respectful tread of the mourner
 or the dread filled pace of the murderer

 You might walk past
 as your bow holds there
 through changing seasons
 now drooped and moulding
 still quivering 
 among how many 
 false blessings 

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