ANDREW BLAKEMORE - Broken Branch

Broken branch on forest floor
And hanging on the tree no more,
All tangled twisted overgrown
It now remains forever prone,
The broken branch a solemn sight
Split on one November's night,
When the wind was cruel and strong
And gales were gusting for so long.

And now the moss and fungi grow
The branch remains as seasons go,
And coiled in ivy winding weaves
While resting on a bed of leaves,
Its brittle twigs do make a perch
For all the woodland birds that search,
For grubs and insects on the ground
Upon this branch they too are found.

Cloaked by nettles fern and weed
Upon this branch the woodlice feed,
While worms and beetles bore away
It soon will crumble with decay,
The broken branch will be no more
No longer lying on the floor,
So many years since it did fall
Yet so much life it gave to all.

ANDREW BLAKEMORE

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