We cling, to the branch of our birth.
To the only twig, we will ever be known.
Through storm, or gale, or merest wisp.
Whatever essence of air, has ever been blown.
We're stuck, steadfast and rooted.
Glued tight, to our parental limb.
Eternally joined, by umbilical chord.
Or simply attached, at nature's whim.
Through every battle, that's ever been encountered.
Every war, that has ever been fought.
To whatever beauty, our eye has been captured.
Creatively imagined, or conceivably thought.
We've grown, through the budding of spring lime.
And matured, through deep hearted, midsummer green.
We've faded, in the waning of the autumn red.
Being stripped bare in winter, never again to be seen.
But here lies the glory, not only in the living.
But in the dying and the deadness too.
Where in one final, gusted breath of existence.
Stalk is clipped from stem, in two.
So then, upon the breeze released.
Cartwheels are spun, on currents of time.
As we join, with all others deceased.
In one spiralling dance, of drift and mime.
To where one's final resting place will be.
Where tethered boat, does ebb and does flow.
Taking the rough with the smooth, in the estuary.
Where seagull, pochard and cormorant go.
To the clean slate, is where we must eventually fall.
Wind gathering us, by the heap and the pile.
Adding compost to the new, with the souls of the old.
Until the next acorn does drop, resetting the dial.
By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2018
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