Mighty Oaks? Poem by C Richard Miles

Some of us are pollarded:
The opportunities
Where we would branch out
Are cut back
By pruning hooks of
Sheer conformity,
The need to fit the norm.
We must not stand out
From the crowd
As we limply line life’s avenues
That lead to that
Which some folks call success.

And there are some
That are restricted even more:
Lopped down
Until mere coppiced shoots remain.
Though feeble shoots
Of aspiration
May thrust up a while
They soon are regimented
Back to base
By humdrum’s woodsman’s axe
To be the brushwood
Of the daily drudge.

And as we stand in line
On busy boulevards of business
Or slink away in thickets
We dare behold in awe
Those maiden oaks
That grow to their full height:
The paragons
And specimens
That head for glory.
The superstars who sprout
Fed by the rain of recognition
In the sunshine of celebrity.

But yet we know
That even in our bonsai state,
That secateurs of
Sensibility have kept in check,
We have a certain comfort
Since the winds of change
Can shake these giants to the core
And when they fall
These that are tall today
Will suffer more that us
If they are humbled
And come tumbling to the ground.