She felt like a tree stripped of its leaves and someone was girdling the trunk.

Her branches stretched out skeletal after the diet of journeying and fleeing,

they rattled against the bones of her children and the struggling child inside,

like nestlings hid in a trunk, as they chirp, quarrel and cry for mother’s food.


Like a willow she wilted as she stood in line with no water to sate her thirst,

or that of her children – who as thin saplings were buffeted by the wind of 

prejudice and officialdom- instead of being warmed by a caring welcome;

they bend and shed tears of fear and loneliness without their father, who


has been weeded out, taken away, threatened within and without by men

and women who enjoy being controlling. They long to cut the whole of the

forest – tree by tree- leaving a trail of destruction that would have made the

mad fools, who tear down the life giving rainforest, seem sane in their ways.


Many like her underfed, who bear hope in a  womb, sicken, whilst in orchards,

the gentle hope of the Spring blossoms bring ripe fruitfulness in harvests,

whence the gardener cares and weeds, waters and feeds until they hold

the abundance in their coarse hands, tasting the sweetness of their labours.


She will be buffeted by the gales of bias and decisions that break her chances,

and her wellness suffer in the punishment of poverty and overcrowdedness.

Her baby is lost to the pretence of ignorance of government, that takes power,

and uses it to condemn a people, who have endured for months, for freedom.


The trees of the forest, of the people of the land, look on sadly, confusedly

as they are no different except in belonging, and their long roots send out

messages that spread through the forest underground – giving, sustenance

to the roots recently yanked from their earth to now drying out in alien lands.


The weeping willows of immigration are hanging their heads and reaching

for the river of hope that is flowing past the gates of their imprisonment,

whilst some are removed and wander around the jungle of the midnight

city. condemned by a  rationed system that denies any need for compassion. 

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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