Dear tree,
you give up your leaves,
as I do tears.
A brittle falling...
In the autumn of our thoughts.
We bear witness, by so doing,
to slow endings.
But may I say
and only as a friend.
Bequeath not your branches,
to winters moon.
Or stand as cold silent testament,
to a previous beauty.
Think only of spring's sparkle
that distant dazzle in the harsh
wind of now.
Let others gather the dead of before.
For I know loss as you.
And we shall know love again,
and it will arrive in the fine
greenery of another day.
Sorry m'dear that it took me a little while to find your blog. Your Beckett tweet caught my eye, and upon a little investigation here I find wonderful poems.
ReplyDeleteYou write beautifully. I will spend more time here.
Many thanks