Where I Sit
I sat with care
on a wide (sawn) stump,
it cut back
by an oxidised blade,
I found a seat
of chamfered comfort,
but still a hard cushion
of battered rings,
where the rounded years
had been taken
by the scouring rain,
and the decay of things;
now rubbed back,
grooves removed,
until the turn of time
had been loosened,
and the history of it all,
once held central,
had been hard-weathered,
no more nature’s annal.