Spring Skeletons (Poetry)

There is a mould upon the bone -
a damp smudge of dull yellow-green
staining the bark -
a growing skin that bubbles small with life,
a mottling of promise

where stick-trees rattle in the wind,
November's graveclothes gone -
stripped by rain, rotted through
and melted into mud by weeks of storms,
the wood's a crypt

for the undead who bide their time,
sink into themselves and wait,
their sap run cold -
lean their bloodless limbs and hang, insensible,
until they're called.