The Sapling Now a Tree

A Poem about growing up, and how scary it can be.

Alone in a copse lies a sapling

struggling to grow amongst the giants gaze,

green, towering hands blotting out the sun,

preventing the sweet golden nectar of

which this little sapling urgently needs,

twisting and turning, to and fro

in its frustration to grasp at the light.

Days go by

Nights pass on

Weeks turn into months

The sapling looking on as it grows.

Green sky bleeding away into orange,

red and yellow, falling like forgotten thoughts,

an unforgiving storm sends the colours

in flourishes as strong winds pull and tease,

long wooden claws digging deep, as the light

swallowed by the clouds builds irritation.

Days go by

Nights pass on

Weeks turn into months

The sapling looking on as it grows.

All around spindly arms covered in snow

stretch high like intertwining skeletons,

pulling each other close, warm, protecting

the sapling that stands taller than before,

its growing annoyance as the cold bites,

weaving through the skeletal maze, snapping.

Days go by

Nights pass on

Weeks turn into months

The sapling, now a tree, grows on.

Above, the sky can be seen within reach,

a pool of light shining sweetly atop,

amongst the waterfall of bright colours,

birds and bees dancing in eloquent twirls,

darting and splashing, haste taken all over 

The sapling He all but stood still Ignorant.

Days go by

Nights pass on

Weeks turn into months

The sapling, now a tree, grows on.

Stretching to earth’s corners is the blue sky

and all around are the once called giants,

standing like age old brothers newly found

sharing in the warm glow that bathes them all

But he looks down,

........................... down,

................................... down, where the thrush lies,

New saplings can be seen, at last it’s known.

The green hands of summer were a protection

from having too much of the suns nectar,

The autumn thoughts forgotten, wise whispers

to help in times of need when needed most,

The winter skeletons were a ribcage

protecting what was smallest and dearest,

The spring waterfall were a reminder

of how close he was to journeys end.

It was now his turn The sapling now a tree.

By Vasco De Mello

Friday 28th December 2012

Author's Note

Enjoy the poem, tell me what you think and any comments and critiques whatsoever are most welcome.