The Trees in My Street

5 March 2021

Arthritic hands line my street,

Creaking and aching in the wind,

Stiff knotted claws arcing warily away

From the hum and snap of telephone lines.


Leaves flicker and wave at the sky,

Quickly breaking from stems to flutter away.

As the wind takes these papery children,

The trees whisper hushed goodbyes,

Groaning and reaching after them.


In the purgatory of a beachside breeze,

In the bitter wind, rapid jerks and eddies,

Under the glare of sun,

Flesh withers into tired husks of brown.


Skeletons left to be snapped under foot,

Rattling against the pavement.


Amber tears slide slowly down hardened trunks

Of faceless trees quiet in their mourning.

Hollows agape in a silent wail

For the small husks that rattle at their feet.


They stand mute in their suffering,

Their limbs bare, bereft.


As the crisp winter wind mocks and beats,

The naked trees wearily sway and creak.


Yet through the bitter chill branches reach

Towards the soft blue sky




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