Outside my window a veritable bird’s nest
Of a tree droops its errant offspring
Over the garden wall.
Never checked or pruned
Its interlace of branches fans the sky.
Supporting it, and at its centre, like Atlas,
A moss- green trunk stands motionless.
Atlas is about my age
Planted here the year I was born.
Do his arms ache, like mine,
Holding up his world?
Or has he learnt ease with stillness?
And no longer frets, as I do
At the antics of offspring?
But holds fast to himself
And knows that they too
Will learn stillness over time.
Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018