Wood

I've been corroding the best of you,
caught sight in a tin can rolling down the 38
or at least falsified
it was you,
ignited old embers,
the one's that never met
your hold, or expectation,
turned around,
followed the sound
of slamming cellar doors,
wonder if
since I let you loose
in the streets of Rushmere
whether you've lost
the ability to recall
in vivid detail
the way I can,
and which bits you recall,
whether your heart sings
whole glasses of opera
to the things we lost
and all the thrumming beats
of us,
lost in mustered woodlands,
cut down in forestry,
corroding in the inbetween,
hunkering down in the bodies
of warm memory.