Charcoal

last                   

                                bare                      tree

   of

      spring,               it                 seems

          like,              in             that

           motorway-         adjacent    

              field;  its  scrawny               limbs

                  upreaching,                   in

                    echo   of                  a

                   clutching         bunch

                    of          cave-

                    wall dancers,

                  which    a

                distantly

              ancestral

            twig, perhaps,

           was once employed  to draw.