Before my birth, in the autumn of life,
I left my mother to fly, free as the wind.
Wingspinning to the sod; my plot of clay
Drowned in winter’s rains; hoar chilled,
Petrified: devoid of life to see.
So I wait; certain of my well rounded life.
Nature; nurture and at last the promise of warm relief
Encouraged me to take root in my community.
I spring into the world.
I am defenceless, young and know not why
My place in the world is claimed by other souls
Who fence me in the land which nature gave to me.
And so I had my infancy, innocent
Of my crime until the flail reminded me.
Cut deep, wounded, sapped.
It would be called a scratch and me self piteous.
Yet nature is as nature grows
My thorough scratch a scar now bold.
The woodsman views me hideously,
Not fit to live in woodlands free.
His axe tomorrow executes me.