Tree

There was a field once under where I stand

Old grass is pressed under the weight of shingle

People walked there under this tree.

 

Now I can sit in the treetop

Still stands, living, leaving, green in Spring,

And my feet are on the ground.

 

It's an old place, quiet in grey days

The waves throw themselves down, crash on the pebbles

And drag them back.

 

You'd think the sea was hungry

The way it's eating up the land.

 

This is soft land, the chalk cliffs crumble

I walk and wonder,

With the white dust over me,

Will there much longer,

be a here to stand?

 

 

 

The End

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