One poem by Anne Bradshaw

Lost Pools
That year
they had left it too late
to cut the trees,
so the limbs were strewn
down the track, ungainly, indecent,
and sap began
to ooze like secret blood,
creeping down the trunks,
a thin syrup that stuck
to my hands like black guilt.
The April skies held nothing like the sun
and I only saw the dead of grey reflected in
lost pools, the moment when I knew
what they had done.

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