These days I’m increasingly aware

of my age, rusty rings rambling

inside, skin splintered, scarred,

limbs crackling, swaying, trembling

in the wind. On this land I stand,

under a sulky, shadowy white sky

cold and indifferent, urging me to

get on with it, a foolish old thing

trapped by time and stars, ignorant

of all things modern – guns, chains,

science that secures souls and slaves

like me, facing death by a thousand

cuts. Silenced, by this river frontier

I thrive, my roots deep and warm,

my voice quiet, haunting, evergreen.

I, who always was, forever will be

a custodian of time, space, spirit.


Image thanks to Victoria’s Giant Trees.

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries

%d bloggers like this: