The Drawbridge Across The Brambles Poem by Mark Heathcote

Memories are like motes, motes that cordons
around some ever cumulative scrubland.
Where little-or-nothing else can be seen
except a stoical boatman swimming to glean.

The waters statically between those subjects,
The fished remains, distorted while recollected.
The prison, the ruined tower, a castle's turret
the blackened, charred bodies tarred on the palette.

Tinged memories are flung far and wide
everything is loosely sketched dockside
the porcelain hand of love the dead poet buried
when your heart was a minuscule galaxy.

Still-big-enough to hold a world sullied
and lower the drawbridge across the brambles forcibly.