An autumnal version of this is happening in today’s golden sunshine. Quickly, before the seedlings lose their leaves and are just little brown sticks.!
I am sure that all of us who are have responsibility for a little bit of land know what it is to turn your back for a while, then find it is growing with such glorious, irrepressible speed that you have no hope of getting it back to whatever plan you had. If, like me, you have a secret preference for wildflowers and woods, it can be hard to pull things up. I keep the runaway primroses and bluebells – but runaway trees! Much as I love a wood, I have to remove them. The tension, wanting but not wanting order, is something I explore in this small poem. I also touch on the more-than-reality of fairy tales, so often expressing some of the deeper workings of our spirits.
Pulling up trees
How quickly this place becomes a wood!
Last year, while I was sleeping,
seeds fell and grew, fell…
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