A memory is a place
Where the tree curls its roots,
As the dry, rustling canopy dies,
And cries its branches, brittle-broken,
Snapped and fallen, sapless and parched, to bony earth.
The roots remember, the crown laments,
It only knows the now, the then, the never again.
In summer, it spreads its branches wide,
Forgets love lost. And love denied.
While its roots stretch even in dry ground
To sip slowly from a well of memories.
Well remembered,
The year passes, rain falls.
The roots grow far beyond the wood,
Far beyond the unfamiliarity of foreign soils,
And far beyond ‘beyond’ itself,
To where the leaf litter lies thin.
Where one tree stands alone.
A mile away in its own dry soil.
The roots recoil from tentative touch,
A frisson that almost burns is captured,
As if a spark was kindled to fire.
The roots remember what the crown forgets,
Memory has a place 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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