Pull me towards you into the shadow of the oak. Pull me
to the almost touching of lips. Disheveled hair, fog creeps
into the undergrowth, a cruel little smile is growing on your lips.
Push me, pull me into the midnight shade; you’re going away.
A bough is carved with the initials of couples; some are slippery
to the touch. Is it February already? Pull me to the almost
touching of lips. I sob for you in the shadow of the oak.
Push me, pull me; disheveled hair; you’re going away.
I never seem to learn that you’ve snatched away my heart
in the oak-filled night? Pull me into the midnight shade.
A fox is lying dead in the clearing; I act like I don’t want to believe it;
you’re going away. Blood drips on the foggy undergrowth, a cruel
little smile is growing on your lips. I sob onto dishevelled hair.
Push me, pull me. Fog cloaks the shadow of the oak.
Is it February already? The initials of couples are carved
on a bough; some are slippery to the touch. Pull me, push me
into the midnight shade. Dishevelled hair, blood freezes
in the undergrowth, I can only picture your pursed lips;
you’re going away. Pull me towards you into the shadow
of the oak. Pull me to the almost touching of lips.
Stef Bishop is a poet and writer of random thoughts. Based in Lincoln, UK, he can often be found getting lost among antique stores and cobble stones, daydreaming in the cathedral quarter of the city or scribbling half-baked ideas on the back of shopping receipts. More of his work can be found online at Lincs & Inks, Impspired and Underbelly Press.
Published 2/14/26