Simon Whitfield


A Living Tree

We see, like crooked fingers on a hand,
The twigs and branches, bare against the sky,
A melancholy sight to meet the eye,
When winter's grip has paralysed the land,
And then we see, as if by nature planned
In recompense, when life is riding high,
The spreading greenery of full July.
These are things we know and understand.
But how the living sap, when summer's near,

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