Friday, September 26, 2008


As the branch upon the tree
so love may wither, unattended,
and broken by the tempest wind
or by its own weight, it falls.

What use then is such a stick,
but to return into the soil
or serve a bonfire, come the chill
of the darker longer nights?

Yet at times a branch left lying
takes root, and growing, reaches sunward,
to freely proffer sweeter fruit
than it ever might before.

Stephen Brooke ©2008


Anonymous said...

This is an inspired poem. I can just see you sitting on a porch and regarding a branch lying on the ground and coming up with this.

Stephen B said...

I haven't been sitting and regarding so much as taking a chain saw to those branches. I've never been a sit and regard sort of person but ideas do often come to me while I'm doing some sort of physical work.