Rowan

Pin my chest with the wood of the Rowan tree,
scatter the red coated berries with their
yellow pus hearts about my coffin.
That Rowan wood will root and leaf
and a tree will grow through my ribs.
Weave wild roses amongst the braids in my hair,
the green thorns from their supple stems
will make a fine martyr's crown.
Put me in the ground, let my centre
be eaten away, my eyes caved in
and my brain become the food for deeply
rooted docks. Then perhaps I will be able
to drain you no more, dream you no more,
see not the sight of you as you slip
from my thirsting grasp.