The great redwoods of my childhood
Are rotten. Their ignorant branches
Crashed like drunk-driven cars,
Creaking to ignominious death down
Wound country lanes, felled by
Mere weary worthlessness.
Stringy saplings now are left exposed to
Frost, to time and mundane
When does pruning become self-persecution?
Perhaps this pain is better. Knowledge, even
Of inadequacy, must surely trump the
Deadened center of an old deluded soul.
To weep for what you’ll never be beats
Not needing it at all.
Ruth Irwin is a London-based poet currently studying History and English at Queen Mary University. Her poetry has appeared in MAP poetry magazine and Spilt inc.