Grey moss grows on an ancient tree
Fattened in solitude
Beyond the reach of Humanity.
It reflects in a nearby Loch
A desire to be cut – chopped
Down into pretty pieces,
Ring by ring – year by year
The wisdom accumulated
– in risk of fading.
Lichens cling and clamber
Towards the top of the ancient tree
As it stolidly stands in attention
– pondering the coming peace.
