White Ash Sapling Trees Poem by Mark Heathcote

Outside a large door, teal paint is flaking
And above the ornate lead transom light-
Cobwebbed: shows us there is no mistaking
This place is a place of neglect—despite
Being the threshold of her house—her home.
There are brambles and white ash sapling trees.
Growing and barring the path. And leaf loam
Soft and solemn, here's a sense of unease
Captured by herself; the occupant—wan.
Ashen, she a winter's moon, a strange girl-
Stark and withered, she's like some winter swan-
On its frozen pond, her goosebumps knurl.
She only wants access - what can she do.
When the bolts in her heart, they're pulled to.