I thought (assumed) it would be straightforward enough to find a picture of a tree to match the image written of below. No. Not a single image capturing the forthcoming description; the closest being one alone on a horizon looking horribly like the default desktop image for Windows XP.
It was the height of summer and the tree in question stood on a small bushy bank, rising tall and well above the hedge below. Its leaves were so plentiful and lush that not a hint of branch was visible—an aspect integral to the below—despite being able to see sky through the odd gap here and there. The sensible thing would’ve been to take a picture of my own, but in resisting the march of the smart phone, I’ve had to use an photo—lovely, it must be said—that doesn’t match the image conveyed.
Then again, if previously succumbing to the lure of never being out of touch and forever able to check and update those as-important-as-oxygen social media networks (so long as neurotically remembering to always keep the phone charged, that is) I might never have taken the time to sit, look and contemplate for no other reason than doing nothing but exactly that.
Standing tall and alone
Small patches of sky peek through
With a purple tint borrowed from
Leaves hanging in abundance
Elsewhere Heaven a perfect light blue
The leaves move
Left, right, up, down
Though truth be told
Watch hard enough
The leaves don’t really move at all
The boughs within from where they spring
To create their hiding canopy
It is they that truly stir
To leave leaves like skin on bones
Hiding the truth about legs and arms
A motion showing what can’t be seen
Though no less real for the fact
Stirring to cool with
The strength to destroy
Moving in metaphor of love
Thanks for reading 🙂
N. P. Ryan
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With much thanks to Pexels Skitterphoto for the header image.
As Summer ebbs, thoughts on the looming Autumn. With thanks to Lukasz Szmigiel for use of the header image.
Poetry about the self and stillness in the modern world.
Are ‘dick pic’ senders the modern equivalent of ‘flashers’? Plus other thoughts on the willy in the inbox phenomenon in poetic form.