James Hambrook

I look at your tired eyes closed As you hold me. I think of oak blossom and acorns I think of still spring mornings I think of violent autumn gales I think of many years. I think of how much of me you have held.

How much did I give you that was hard to hold? How much did I give you that gave you strength? How much of you did I take? How much of you did you give? How much of me did I lose? How much I cannot know.

Have you walked in a wood in a storm? When gusts throw branches, Bend crowns of trees that, in a breath, Bounce back harder, forward faster. When the trees become the violence of the wind, And when limbs that lean on one another scream? Have I been there? Have we?

How much did I lean? How much did you lend? How much did my love sink into my sadness And take you with me? How much did your love stand full grown before it tired? How much I cannot know.

And then in the calm between gales, The same trees, the same earth … another world. How much did you breathe then? How much I cannot know.

I know weather worn wisdom grows, That strain torn boughs that gusts brought low Grow a new angle now. That sadness again like spring’s green leaf, By autumn, became a new colour. That oak blossom of pungent spring Became acorns of promised life in the dying of the year.

I have seen saplings become strong trees. One, two, three, a group, a stand of trees. Next to each other in storms and stillnesses, With twisting, growing branches, Reaching with coarsening leaves, Or even with bare winter twigs jostling. And rhizomes rising through leafmould, And deeper into soil … Slowly rooting this part of the weathered wood.

Your tired eyes closed As you hold me I think of oak blossom and acorns I think of violent autumn gales I think of still, spring mornings I think of many years. I think of life rooted in the weathered wood to come And I know. I know.