tiny white flowers grow in the gash
of a silver birch, tendons split between the reaching
of roots which traverse upwards over old scars,
towards a branch shadowed with grey
and flaking skin.
leaves fall from origami twists
into the lap of a prince who, as an old man,
sits beneath this tree to confess his years into the quiet
of summer: loves, lives, losses
and a lingering thought
that his name means nothing.
in mornings passed, the prince would climb trees
and wade through the froth of sky, searching
for a fortune stories told him he’d find in the heights
of life. he’s a man with eyes
as old as the tree he sits beneath,
only he doesn’t look,
he breathes.
but this tree misses youth, too, and if it had eyes
it would gaze at each new shoot – green as eve
– with wonder. silver skin peels like the scales of armour
or notes on battle for excited archaeologists.
but beneath it all are the wounds
of old men, old crowns, and old hearts,
and a thousand rings of silver dust.
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