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The Felling of Yggdrasil

Luke Bateman thinks about the closing off of possibilities in this atmospheric poem.

Worlds branch off like capillaries

From an oaken aorta.

Rustle of emeralds

Wreathed in drifting clouds.

I think of Tolkien’s son’s bedroom,

Dreams swimming through the window pane.

How many nights I might have spent opposite,

Chatting on street corners,

Watching lamplight blur in puddles,

Lost gems in overflowing storm drains.

All those pathways closed off:

Axe straight to the trunk,

Leaves twinkling out.

How many nights have been washed away?

Image Credit: Katie Kirkpatrick.

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