The family tree
Old men cling to their gnarl-wooden sticks
And wither from the cares of the world over
Like apple blossom kissed silver with icy cold licks
They know there are no more days of clover
But from their flowering came the fruit
The seed of wane-blown family
From their branching water-shoot
A core of all that's good and bramley
So remember dearly, remember clearly
The canker of their clay sincerely
For they still warm us ever so dearly
With their glowing embers.
And sweeten our childhood, Septembers
Long into their own autumnal Novembers!
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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