Nobody knows

Nobody knows

Even the breeze

Blows hot and cold

Tossing leaves into the air

Tearing through the laden branches

Of old Oak trees

Dispatching rumours

Of arboreal survival

Alongside the impact

Of sudden death

As an old limb

Gnarled and brittle

Buckles under the strain

Nothing is known

About the meaning

Of a rainstorm

It just flows

Out of the sky

When the time comes

Was it ever thus

Even as we strive

To understand

The passion in a writer’s heart

Tilting

With sharply pointed

Ink-stained swords

We come up short

Of the windmill

Closer to the Ass

Than a Donkey

What can be heard

Whispered

In the garden

Beneath the canopy

Of an apple tree

Is it a promise

Of contentment

Is it the temptation

To believe we are free

Nobody knows

Not you

Not me.