Tangle of lissom branches,
intricate twig assemblies
trailing, curving, looping, so sway
inimitable waves to dusk
beyond window panes, writing
(though mind must meet them half way there)
subconsciously on my cortex
a fractal and rhythmic delight.
As did gestures of trees passed by
breezily on roads to clients
(paired with my own projected reach)
scribe directly on my brain their
neurone linkages.
Sun enquired
of retinal health, and of the
trees of veins which feed my eager
yet ageing vision.
Don’t they say
the brain is plastic? Wilderness
of thick bramble, furze and thistles
is a far better metaphor;
and no trauma of gardener
but a battered-hatted Bombadil
in crashing yellow boots –
Ego
in all its unfettered glory.
But, hush. Let the young hazels
and bushes sway; and let the nightfall
robe itself in gathered shadows.
Just that thought transports me deep back
to teenage years, walking in dark
the seven mile trek from Grandma’s:
'fearing the moon's mad hollow
and laughing still, glowing roads
ember in triumph to the amber lights'.*
..................
*From a poem I wrote when 14 years old.
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Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
