year after year
this oak tree has stood
with the chalk hill behind
and its acres of wood
today I’m as quiet
as an old tree can be
as cold and unmoved
as that chalk hill I see
without looking

just cooking

something deep down
unfashioned unfound
as a spring underground
on that hill I can see
without peeking

just creaking

like an old tree
will in the wind

One thought on “creak

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