Cantilevered from the crumbling bank,
brought low but curving to the light,
this fir persists.
One heavy rain into the clay might
refresh its roots or bring it down.
What to do but fashion needles, ripen cones?
Through the forest in the slope behind me
sunlight warms my shoulders.
The bright patch moves seawards,
shrinks and fades.
I will not follow it.
Like the fir, I take what I need from this place,
learning not to ask “How long?”
(F.M. Boyce 27-09-2017)