Tree-hugging By Joseph Woods

There’ll come a season when you’ll stretch

Black boards to cover me

– J M Synge

Somewhere in the murmur of the fourth

decade, at the end of the dining room

leaning upright against a bookcase;

the lid bearing his name and dates,

that moment when the blank beyond

the dash of birth gets engraved.

Admiring the grain, but resisting

the temptation to run my hand

over the craftsmanship,

instead, drifting to the wood

that will one day encase, the standing tree

that in the end will fall for us.

A species of oak perhaps in keeping

with tradition and how many more

growth rings for a man of over forty.

In whose earth are its roots extending?

About Author Annette J Dunlea Irish Writer

Irish Writer Website: Twitter: @adunlea Facebook:
This entry was posted in Ireland, Poet, Poetry, Writing & Writers and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.