Bog Oak

Your tortured spirit
contorted but rooted to the eye,
twisting cable fashion
stretching by the magma
forcing life above and to the sky.
Your womb became a cairn
where you slumbered,
decades lost and yet to be found,
aborted from the bog
dead, but with a thousand tongues.
recognisable in each wooden-
band, diminishing with each era
married to measure time.