Wednesday, 29 November 2017

I wanted to save it:

Leaves that should have been
green and gently serrated, instead
bronzed and curled.

Crowning each branch,
petals that had never opened, defeated;
limp and brown, like hats
fallen over faces that frowned.
Darkness forever swallowing what colour
might have been presented.

It had shrunk in
on itself, as if it searched
for shadows within.

On the burnt ground
around its defeated trunk,
leaves shed before their time;
each a story to tell,
each the same tale,
defeat ruins everyone.

I stood, hose in hand,
water pushing out in a tail
of hope;

too late,
there are some places
from which there is no coming back.

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