Poem by Julian Orde Abercrombie

The morning weaves
A piece of bone
To a branch of fingers,
But the rain
Blurs the sea-shift
Twists the cone,
And now this hand
Is bone again.

From: http://www.pnreview.co.uk/cgi-bin/scribe?item_id=7787

Date: 19??

By: Julian Orde Abercrombie (1917-1974)