The Martyrs Of The Fall

The plan suddenly made sense. The ones gilt
And withered by age would break off and sail
Downward as tribute until the earth built
Autumn’s crackling carpet, for winds to wail

And booted feet to march through. This would save
The raw brown promise of spring that quivered
In the bereft branches that themselves gave
Wholly to sorrow, that whirled and shivered

Under the blows and bleachings of Winter.
But in the despair of the mother tree
Their ardour would have planted the splinter
Of the hope that can rewrite destiny.

[First published in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review]