After the Storm

In woods we crouch,
a slow stoop,

by low-branch trees, or
fallen trees,

or trees who may
quite likely be thinking

of falling.

And trees that lean
on other trees,

as older persons lean
on younger arms,

in times of barken creaking.

Inclined towards age ourselves,

with hunchéd backs
and root~twisted veins, we

time-carved Notre-Dames
of the woods

tread moss,
leaf mould, rot.

We crush frail twigs
with appropriate respect.

We are not far behind.

Ivor Daniel lives in Gloucestershire, U.K. His poems have appeared in A Spray of Hope, Wildfire Words, Steel Jackdaw, Writeresque, iamb, Fevers of the Mind, The Trawler, Roi Fainéant, Ice Floe Press, The Dawntreader, After..., Alien Buddha, Block Party, and Black Nore Review. Find him on Twitter @IvorDaniel.