The Poet Wakes

To graveyards now
Where bones of poems
Restless sleep
Cradled by thornful
Hedges of neglect

Shadows lengthen
Pulled from westering sun
Til fallen night is come

And feathered vowels
In crooked oaks
Mournful watches keep
They moan
Rustling consonants of leaves
Sighing inspiration blown
With moonlit ivory
Clatter of dry bone.