No wind in these willows

though the poplars tremble

and blackbird clucks warning.

Silent this earth,

that is ours to labour if we will.

Once we held the dreams of a clutch,

kept the wolves at bay.

Once night fell and sleep came easy,

easy as the contentment of babies,

rocked in our spreading boughs.

Stars still fall, but no one can find them;

they dart like timid fish among the silver grasses.

Once we thought it was enough

to wish and rock and spread,

our roots gripping this earth,

that this birdsong, day and night-haunting,

would fall into their ears too,

like the placid embrace of a lake.

But seeds, once scattered,

fallen like bright stars into the green ocean, grow,

and the sun will rise in the west

before these beloved seedlings

will weave their roots with ours.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

14 thoughts on “Root-weaving”

  1. Such beautiful imagery, Jane.
    “But seeds, once scattered,
    fallen like bright stars into the green ocean. . .”

    Your roots are strong, but who can predict what your seedlings will do?

      1. Yes, but we can’t help what we want and wish either. (As long as we keep it to ourselves.) 🙂 The clichés–as long as they’re happy and healthy–are true.

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