Tree at Coniston Priory
I saw your wet dog face emboldened as a Herald upon your missing limb.
His thick creases deeply lined between his nose, eyes and gaping mouth.
The creviced, cutting, contours ran a moist mist black on your thick fur.
I trace a finger in your dog's mouth and feel it's bark. Put both my palms round heavy jowls and stroke away the morning rain.
From another scapulure fision I see two weeping ocular slits, sad lips upset as an emoji smiley upside down.
Oh something hurt when the saw slid through your trunk this time, something hurt bad.
The mask of tragedy displayed to lament your missing flange.
Bodhisattva arms unselfishly bent upwards to pick an unseen flower or a thick bicep bulging to punch the thunder. Without return you heard a suffering cry and gave us breathe.
Compassion grew you many boughs.
So in return we wield a jagged edge and take your thick brown - black skin and your woody, white flesh. The forelimb no longer points to the morning sun.
Oh how you grieve !! A bloodless shock with the appendage lying motionless. 'The deeds are, but no doer of the deed is there'
Unhindered you respond to grow your faces of weathered hounds and masks of weeping playwrights. To remind me when I walk these woods 'mere suffering exists, no sufferer is found'.
Copyright © Ann Kershaw | Year Posted 2019
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