Choice

Darkness falls. So do I,
Felled like an oak, or maybe more like a little birch.
The axe wasn't sharp enough to finish the job in one swing...
Branches stretching uselessly, stupidly towards a sky ninety degrees further north,
Forever out of reach.
Leaves curl and die and turn to ash.
Birds begin to descend.
One in particular circles overhead,
Churchill's black dog, for me, takes raven form.
It lands in my branches. I am powerless to shake it out.
But if I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself deaf to its insidious chatter,
If I can imagine myself into silence and strength I don't yet possess,
Sooner or later the sun must re emerge
And fill me with hope, the colour of chlorophyll green.
Maybe then I can stand up, shake off the debris and walk away from this desolate place
And the stump where I used to stand tall.
It's a choice. I choose the harder path, a stone learning how to swim...