When I'm at my mum's in France
Where the land still finds some freedom
And chalk oaks twist a living from the hills
There are trees I know
Knot by knot, a braille of youth
All but forgot.
They greet me like the pensioners
Who once were working men
Or the stooping lady with her stick
Who was forever shrinking.
The chalk oaks stand
And grow so slow
They inch unnoticed in decades known
But for branches from the knots
Some freshly grown, some spent and cropped
A path among old and silent friends
Their creviced bark beneath my running hand
Like hope to watch them slowly branch
Constant as the years advance.
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