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Print of a Mighty Oak


Rusty Broadspear

A butterflying fingertip settles lightly

Parted from a million sisters and brothers.

Deep, dark, veined concentrate of green,

Solitary, dying,

Yet retaining tales of myth and magic,

Arthurian wonderment, battles and woe.

Sap of life from deep within the earth,

Guzzled by ancient roots

Takes the super highway

Disregarding gravity.

Onwards, upwards the very lift of life,

Departing onto many floors,

Racing through corridors, passageways,

Alleys. Hurrying, scurrying

To a multitude of arms, hands and fingers.

Slowing rapidly to a halt,

Gently feeding the fingertips.

Carried in capillaries, to the very edges

Of this fragment of wonder.

If each leaf of an oak, indeed every oak

Could speak, then they’d say

That each and everyone of us is unique.

I pick it up carefully – so delicate,

Feeling, breathing, it’s beauty and mystique.

Taking in dark green, earthy aromas.

This very print of a mighty oak

Flutters the heart, gives one strength.........

And makes one feel weak.

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