diary of a fallen tree

5) 

i'm rotting on the riverbank.
my roots have not taken hold yet,
sideways,
into the sloping sides;
my leaves brush the water,
the ripples
spread and change into 
colours.

there is a small girl walking 
across me,
wobbling and tumbling,
standing tall on my young back
and crossing the river;
her father walks beside her,
new shoes in soft mud,
taking her light weight
with
a tiny, grubby hand in his.
her mother watches,
smiles.

11)

now my roots are growing down,
perpendicular to the
gravel underbelly of the water,
which has lessened
in the winter. the frost makes
each bank
slippery white with ice, and
cold air shivers through my branches.

the girl is here again, no longer
the chubby thing,
nor is she holding tight to
her father to cross,
she stumbles over and
is not
looking at where her feet land.
she reaches the other end
and hides in the hollows
between my roots, her tatty coat
a shield against the wind.

14)

this winter has been long and still,
the water does not rise up
to kiss my leafy greens,
wash against the wax.
the forest has come to greet me now,
soft moss soothing my bark pathways,
new creatures 
in the shadows of each twig.

she is thinner, weaker. standing in 
the arms of a boy, and
they both smile
for the benefit of the other;
happy, but muted,
faces matching masks.
he takes out a knife, and she
shows him to where i 
have lain now for so long.
he pushes the metal against my
moss, and the wood
crackles beneath the pressure. he
carves letters, first into me
and then his thumb.

16)

the packaging has changed, but
not the levels of plastic
clogging the waterways
and ticking the dirt paths.
the first incision was made, and so 
the rot set up shop
selling off cracks and layers of bark to
the forest floor.
i am old and beginning to crumble,
the squirrels scampering over
is weight enough to make me groan.

she is dressed in comfort,
held in the arms and gaze of
another. her smile seems
in earnest. they lean against my 
crackled coverings, she
guides him over, as she was once guided.
they laugh and kiss and his hands
move from uneven greys 
to soft skin, his lips to
hers. her hair catches reds and blonds
twined around his fingers, and
the river has risen
for rock throwing and puddle-jumping.

21) 

the women in reds and greens who
once walked with dogs through the woods
are now fading,
the teenagers with smokes,
the children on bikes and hopes,
they are all vanishing.
the river is blocked by a dam
no beaver could build;
the greatest brands are even seen by
dying fish in the water.

she walks slowly, clumsily as she once did,
to the top of the gravel edges,
going no farther, guarding her secret
jealously
from the harsh air and bright
light that could harm a youngling.
he walks to her swollen side,
and her face eases. slowly,
slidingly, they find the bottom of
the river, the stained branches
that once caressed the sky
reflected in clear water.

26)

i have lain as a corpse for
too long now, my frame
is creaking with time amassed and never wasted.
i wish to fall into the river,
be lulled by the sound of the air moving,
the monotony of the sun, and watch with 
lazy thoughts the girl who walked 
across, when i was young, strong.
winter is fading now, the light 
filters through the leaves above me.

the girl is gone, in her
place a woman. tired eyes, and
lines from smiling mark her
face now, where apple cheeks and
gap-teeth were once. there is
a small boy making his way over,
tumbling and wobbling,
standing tall on my gnarled bones
to cross the mudslick of river.
his father beside him,
wellingtons sinking in the ooze
to take the weight, one grubby hand
clasped tight in another.
his mother watches,
smiles.