He stood
At the end
Of the days
That had passed
And he wept
For them all
As they spilled
Through the gaps
In his fingers
That clawed
The air
At their backs
Til the one
That he thought
That he'd caught
Was his last.

The night
the moon started
to drip
a silver drop
fell from
it's tip
and carved
in the dark
the sweep
of an arc
so fine
we thought heaven
had split.

Something made me smile
as I passed the place today
where the beech nuts used to pile
and the squirrels used to play
and the workman with the frown
that is sawn into his face
came to take the old tree down
and leave a raw and empty place.

'Let her be a wooden tombstone,
she was getting out of hand'
declared a rubber stamped official
but he didn't understand
that all her strength was in her roots
and her roots were all still there
and today I smiled and watched
her raise ******* in the air.

He
had
worked
hard
for
most
of
his
lifetime
at
being
the
odd
one
out
or
at
the
very
least
at
appearing
different
to
other
people
he
considered
with
disdain
to
be
normal
and
now
after
finally
mastering
the
look
other
'different'
people
wore
he
had
an
uneasy
feeling
that
he
had
simply
exchanged
one
uniform
for
another
and
doing
so
hadn't
required
a
presence
of
oddness
in
any
way
at
all.

I cannot write
I cannot find
behind the creases
of my mind
the words to fill
another line,
those words wait
out of sight
for now I
cannot write.