The past is a place
Where the tree curls its roots in a memory
The canopy dry and rustling
The branches brittle-broken
Snapped and fallen on hard earth
The roots remember, the crown forgets.
Another tree, a mile away in its own dry soil
Spreads its branches wide, remembers love lost
And love denied.
Its roots stretch for memories
And only find the dry ground.
The year passes, rain falls
The roots grow far beyond the wood
Far beyond familiarity to foreign soils
Far beyond 'beyond' itself
To where the leaf litter lies thin
And one tree stands alone
A mile away in its own dry soil
The roots touch and fumble
Recoil gently and intertwine
The roots remember what the crown forgets
The past becomes a place once again
About the Creator
Ian Vince
Erstwhile non-fiction author, ghost & freelance writer for others, finally submitting work that floats my own boat, does my own thing. I'll deal with it if you can.
Top Writer in Humo(u)r.
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