[Issue 2020.55]

‘Oak Tree’, Fiona M. Jones

Photograph © 2020 Fiona M. Jones

If trees were
poems this one
wouldn’t rhyme and
lost its rhythm
halfway through
stopped happening in the
middle of its story
it struggled dried and
straggled slowly died
not surrendering its
crown to time or
wind or lightning-strike
but to sickness
of mine-effluent
livid orange swamping
this and others too
turned deadwood skeletons
until the reed-beds
cured their water
and only oak
slow-growing slow to die
crept back to life
misshapen shoots and
asymmetric foliage
to stand alone
tall whitened frame
wrapped round with
thickening life
a tableau of
Exuberance and Grief
it stands for you or
me or Earth or something
it resonates but still it
doesn’t rhyme

© 2020 Fiona M. Jones

[Issue 2020.55]

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