So many times, I’ve walked past. Seeing but not seeing.
For this giant’s footprint, this decayed and blackened skeleton
has long scuttled from my attention. But now I pause.
Vague architecture
ripples into sense:
Steps morph into centuries-old roots basking on the soil’s surface,
the ankle-high wall surrounding a stump-table
melts into remains
of an even larger trunk, worn smooth by time’s fingers.
Five of me could stand inside and still not knock elbows.
I bet
it was Lord of Trees once,
before disease or the elements or man
finally beat it down.
And though the realisation
that I’m hovering within its bones strikes hard,
I don’t mourn for long.
How can I
when this humble grave teams with life?
Fungi, lichen, moss –
they decorate its bark like the echoes of new growth.
Climbers and creepers seek its grain, grasping
it like a helping hand, a boost of support
for their own roots.
And here I am, connected to it all,
part of the quiet bustle that takes place despite winter’s clutch.
This poem is part of my #52weeksofnaturepoetry project to raise funds for UK wildlife charity RSPB and to encourage an appreciation for nature. If you enjoyed it, please consider sharing it and/or donating to the RSPB via my Just Giving page here.
Help keep wildlife wild!
Treeshallow Musings 