Shafted again 
our bistort senses vervain divine in the driest ground, and magic of our betony can track and map the wind and rain, yet the death-rattle sorrel went unheard 
we expected, deep in bracts, we knew, in perianth and sepal, just forgot the [bad word] we cluster 
we hoard ourselves for fibrous return, to sainforth our everlasting, a spur of what we are, but for now, charlock and cluster, deep in the ground, awaiting our return