The Willow stands central in the garden,
Weeping onto winter’s bitter shoulder.
I hear her crying in the dead of night,
I pull a pillow over my head;
But the sadness still remains.
Her slumped trunk,
Her sagging skin,
A vertical eye forever open.
Her branches hang like broken arms,
Swaying limply in the wind.
When the morning comes I awake
With the same dread in my stomach
That she feels in her roots.
She wails ceaselessly.
The birds stay away.
Even a sleeting shower provides no relief.
She is forced to drink the rain
That prolongs her anguish
That adds another day to this persistence
Known as nature.
The poor Willow tree,
Baring her flesh for us all to view.
Wilting and whining at the oaks and beech
Standing tall with pride; something she never had;
Something she’ll never know.
For she forever will weep,
Nothing can lift her weary head.
Let her pass on.
Let her century come to rest,
And fell her falling frame.
Jonny Benjamin (c)
‘Pill After Pill’