They were spells

All encompassing concentric circles of stone
Unearth rebirth of virus full blown
The dull tones of branches, avalanches that groan
exchanging glances at lances flung far from the throne

We are shown each morning
that gravity has not disowned us from our moorings
But sees me withdrawing to the woodland evermore
Never sure what for, but implored by a dozen score
– twohundredandfortyormore –
soaring silver birch crying
“Chase not the garb of the Emperor of yore”

My spirit can only be torn by will of self
I create my own shelf and await advancing molluscs

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