To Move at the Speed of a Sapling

I’ve been thinking if plants grow slow,

Next to the vegetable patch,

Bruised water and milk in hand.

Out they come,

warmer days,

looping tops,

meaty black juice eaten by everything underneath.

A starling tugs with little reward at some string

Hanging on the washing line

Tilly gives it a voice.

I notice something strange,

Under the mackerel sky,

Between the green, is a young sapling.

This was no vegetable and it certainly wasn’t a weed.

I thought to myself whilst swooping to see,

that, I am sure, it is the beginning of a tree.

I checked the little tree every day,

Peeping up from my book in window-light, day-light, owl-light.

I became impatient, I stared, glared even, and thought

When will you be as tall as me?

With each day came a little more time to think, and so,

I now know, amongst other things, to move

At the speed of a sapling.



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