The Betrayal

This path is  not for  me

I left a long time ago

Time comes and the rest of me departs

No fruit tree, bramble or sloe

My garden is over-grown

Flag iris, willow and wild rose

The marshland of the north is here

It has its own beauty

But the bramble path is for me

I no longer listen to the birdsong

With disheartening rhythm and no harmony

The steady cuckoo and woodpecker have gone

The robin in charge with a robust territorial irony

And it saddens me

Like the dead cherry blossom tree

I stand on the hill bowing in the wind

To the setting sun and velvet sky

Rooted but dead, a cackling crow on my bough

I close my eyes and dream of brambles

 

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