To A Beech

Spread twig fingers.
Shed your leaves.
Those that linger:
They may grieve
When comes the winter
But come spring,
New buds splinter,
New blooms bring
That grow and swell
Concentric bands
That breathe and dwell
Upon this land.

Plumb the darkness.
Glory light.
Show us far less
Than you might.
Keep us guessing
Of your roots.
Don’t confess in
Subtle shoots.
Paint the sky
With each green brush.
When the sun dies
Sweep on dusk.

Still, and still,
And still more still.
Silent, grand,
And so tranquil.
Show me I
Have stillness too.
Buried by
My need to do.
To do; to speak;
To colour in;
To fill the bleak
Wide space within
With sound and noise
And thought and speech.
With any toys
Within my reach.

Teach me instead
To stand and be;
To leave my head
And sit in me.
Teach me to make
A home for those
Who fear and quake
From unseen foes
Teach me to celebrate
The earth,
And not debate
Its cost or worth.
Teach me to love
All those below,
All those above,
All that I know.

Hugh Rose, October 2015