Promises
One year I made an oath
to be more like a blackthorn tree,
standing strong, sustained in strife,
making a spell-spoken poppet of myself
to pierce past pain with night time thorns.
I told my favourite tree I would endure everything.
Exhale – let the challenges change my shape
into something tall, twisted, tangled, rooted
down in a damp lineage that can
never forget the smack of the sea.
I did not know what it would be like to wait,
watching worlds begin on branches,
the pulse and pain of bud burst, flowers forming
first to light lamps in dark days' dragged gloom,
each opening both beginning and denouement.
I had not considered the working wisdom
of soft coiled caterpillars, creating themselves,
lackey, magpie, hairstreak, skin-shifting shapes;
or driven determination of song thrush and yellowhammer
binding mossy muddles into fine formed hideaways.
How can a human fathom the forbearance of tree time?
All sunlight sugar spun reaching up and out,
yet down and under soft soil, between earth and air,
an arrow's mist. A bright beacon waiting to burst beams
in gloom-pinned slumber, an offering of cold kindled light.