Standing out alone
a tree in calcareous soil
in cold empty spaces
comforting its neighbours,
embedding its roots
that share the earth with
its dimensions, retaining
most seasonal foliage.
Winter comes, the Beech peaks,
moss combing it's cosy thick
broken bark on splayed bowed
branches of twisted twine,
reaching the blue-grey sky
filling it with charm through
coming alive.
What I saw next was light snowflakes
dribbling in white cotton-like
threaded strips on branches,
exposing each grass green leaf
of this twisted specimen.
Among all, its kind to remain
a stranger to me with the connection
and has only its solitude.
December 2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem