Not a Nordic arrow

This tree.

Not a dart fired from the land

With quivering velocity.

Though softer and stronger;

It pierces me.

 

Its trunk curves and twists

Towards the absent sun.

Gnarled  bark sheds

This year’s skin.

The beauty of painful growth.

 

Each branch extends

With fingers unfurled

And invites.

A verdant pillow

On a tower bed.

 

Scattered cones shelter.

beneath a canopy arch.

While above,

In evergreen heavenly clouds,

The birds flutter and sing

Like angels with harps.

 

By Fiona Lochhead 2012tree3

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