Standing Sisters

My brave oaken sisters,

Who line my route home

Your stance has been noted,

Your protest, my own.

I'm so utterly small,

Reduced by the me -

While the whirl of your clothes,

Your fragments of summer,

Spin round to be free.

Spin wild to the road.

Blistered veils of protection,

To stand in the air.

Just standing there, true.

Standing there.

Wish I could seek less permission,

Than changing, adapting my position,

Such measured control,

Juxtaposed with my soul,

Which stands with you - tall

The fast whirlwind of fall.

Breast and spine steady in air,

Grey determination to bare

Winter's knife and despair.

A pride in your stance,

Invites more than my glance;

Do you choose this together?

Tribal steps? come the weather,

Roots locked, earthen tether.

So brave in the cold,

I'm not of your mould -

Just standing there

True.

Standing there.

I am not turning this blog into a poetry blog, don't panic! I just found an old notebook with a poem I had written from a time when I used to drive past this amazing row of ancient oaks on my way into teach. I was struck by the wild abandonment of their 'clothes' as they stood, lined up to face the coming season.

I wondered if they knew what was coming? If they had a sisterhood, living in each other's shadows and reaches. If they felt daunted by the challenge of cold, or invigorated and alive?

I thought about our own resilience and power, how harder times bring out a strength that you may not even know that you hold. I felt that I could take something from their resolute stance - instead of always changing to fit what everyone else needed and wanted, I could learn to face things and be firm.

I still think about those trees. The standing sisters.