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By Joan Dashwood

I am an old post
Firmed to the earth
Many seasons ago.
Seasoned I am indeed,
Rotting away now
Little by little,
Splinter by splinter,
Leaning drunkenly a little
to one side.
Long ago
An old farm dog was tied to me
(That’s why I am leaning,
He so wanted to be free)
We understood each other,
I the supporter
He the supported
(As it were)
But prisoners both.

I am an old post
Stuck sideways
In the fertile earth,
Waiting patiently to disintegrate.
Something is stirring,
Something in my old wood
Is alive, is moving.
(Not the insects that feed on my helplessness).
Am I to become like Aaron’s Rod
And burst into leaf?
Even now
I feel a curl of green
Gently, but virtually and inexorably
Winding up from the earth.
The finger of Life has touched me again!
Is it possible
That I can still be a Supporter?


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