The Thrum

 

I listen to the thrumming of the wind

These trees tell stories of a time,

not so different for some,

The climb is still as steep,

Though the hum less rhythmic.

Electricity lays its lines out flat

for us to keep. 

Memory

 

This shouldn't hurt they say,

the scope going in,

Something remembered,

Like some small sin

Putting a thing

in the wrong bin

Realisation blooms

on the rotting pile within.

It shouldn't,

But it does,

Couldn't .....

All done ! they reply.

Yet the thorned thing

Grows

And we cry.