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
Reblogged this on Another Way of Saying.
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