It is strange how the brown, burnished golden leaves of the beech tree,
cleave to the branches through wind and hail, rain and snow. Frost rimed
they stay rocking in the wind and clinging on until the new brown shoots,
green and burgeoning cover the autumnal branches with fresh life.
They are like the dying breath of bad news that stifles us with death,
each holding firm to our contracted agreement to grieve and weep
until, like the beech we find new strong sweet shoots growing through,
bringing us the hope of Spring and a future of summer green joy.
Ridged and crinkled those papery but tensile leaves will slowly fall,
and gradually nourish the life laden earth with their starchy larders,
creating a haven for seeds to swell and toil under the darkened earth,
and we will see the new plants that root and grow in the rotting riches,
tiny plants, ephemeral with flowers like jewels, feeding the foraging birds
dandelions, thistles, forget-me-nots, sunny buttercups and tiny daisies.
Creative survival goes on around us; giving signs for us to hold tightly
to a future where evil and loss yield to the source of increasing hope.