the fireplace corner shouts out to me
a walking stick the root of a tree
found under a wetland canopy
its bark is silver gray       

the pine stave bids me weather the wind
drubbing urgent deadlines - cannot find
the boxed-in child with the outdoor mind
i miss me while so confined
       
leans up against the red brick wall
all knotty and gnarled a forest's nod
awakens a rustle only the woods can sigh
or slide so far behind
       
without my staff im a prisoner here
by the work-a-day, the pay-the-bill scare
but ripped from the mossy soil bed
the walking stick reroots my head










4.4 10/9
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson