My memory is a woodland grove of trees
who, down the years, have joined with me in prayer.
For such a long time I was unaware
Of quite how deeply my roots joined with these
Companions who, while steadfast in their place,
Have walked with me on paths of pain and grace.
There was the Hawthorn, clinging to the rocks
Where I sought shelter from the driving rain,
The fragile Birch outside the window pane
Where we would pray beneath the tower blocks,
The Chestnut, lightning scarred yet resolute,
Into my prayers these trees have taken root.
So now, as I seek stillness for my praying,
I find their rustling leaves, their branches swaying.
© Rich Clarkson, 2020
Rich Clarkson Poetry 