This poem is taken from Stand 230, 19(2) June - July 2021.

Paul Connolly Two Poems
Ash, April 2020

It’s months since the felling. The woods have become historic,
a battlefield site, reshaped and scabbed after carnage.

Every year in April, an outward billow of blackthorn
astonishes in swirls of snow, except this year.
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