The Language Tree

Out of the language tree

The leaves float down.

Whirling, they criss and cross,

Writing new patterns on the ground,

Slowly coding this year´s messages.

Below, the wadded strata

From last years

Distil and mature old meanings.

And down and among the roots,

Half-forgotten, skeletal memories

Mutted by the loam,

Stir in their sleep,

Mutter and moan.

And way above, twig ends,

Bud withing bud, dream

Of meanings for next year,

And the next, and the next.

Every year the same tree,

Roughly the same shape and size.

And every year a subtle

Change of size and shape;

A small surprise

A limited escape.

Alan Maley