Hole In The Hedgerow

Glowing warm under the ash,
Fading with the dawn,
Burnt out by the night.
Scruff for the matches,
Baggage for the back,
And bags for the eyes.
Washed-up flotsam,
Splintered life raft,
On the Shore of misfit toys.
Streak of paint dry across the canvas.
Last breadcrumb for the trail dropped.

At the end of my twig,
Bending with the wind,
And the weight of everything.