Sunday 5 May 2013

1 Poem by Roy K. Austin


That old beech held me high
when I was a young boy,
but with these brittle bones
I cannot climb her now,
and still she stands, breaking
through my lifetime’s weather,
sturdier than ever ,
her gnarled, transforming boughs
once mine, twisted skyward
with all my childish dreams;

old hands touch her bole now,
feel that numb resistance,
impervious to me,
my wise, old age to her
a mayfly existence.


I am retired and reside in Dorset England, Have written poetry for 20 years mainly metaphysical. I followed 20th century sages notably Alan Watts.

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