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