Poems

Hands Of Nature

Wounded, stark boughs, limbs that have toiled,
Worked through the land, weathered & spoiled.
Cracked, open surfaces,
battered & broken,
No twisted hedge tales are heard, or yet spoken.
Arthritic forms reach high for salvation,
Desperately seeking their rightful ovation.

Wrinkled & knotted, like crusted, gnarled leather,
Looking like aged hands writhing together.
A resilient relic, an ancient sensation,
An elderly sorcerer’s marvellous creation!

22nd February 2019

2 thoughts on “Hands Of Nature”

    1. Debbie Jones says:

      I hope it’s the “marvellous creation” bit, Edward! 😁

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