Pirate Trees Ahoy

Such a wind blows as can turn tall masted trees to galleons and take them into the dark searching for gold and secret islands.
In the morning we look and find two self-seeded broad bean plants: as good as bullion here is things that grow into food.
The fat-trunked ash twitches, moored back to our hedge; the wind blows softer; they reminisce; we make-believe their whispers.
Last night’s wind has blown the weather out of shape: odd bits of rain fall hither, thither. Fragments of sun, not enough to dry wet clothes, and half-rainbows, which hold their beauty and maybe the fragmentary nature adds a sense of luck to have any rainbow at all.
Back to the dark sails the day. On the rotary line outside one sodden towel testifies to a swashbuckle system of belief: optimism, acceptance, derring-do. 


Cherdo said…
Your accompanying pictures are wonderful.
Dixie@dcrelief said…
What a wonderful metaphor!
Geo. said…
My children played at being tree-pirates, and I suppose I did too. Branches became the rigging of tall ships. Lovely memory. Thank You.
Lisa Southard said…
Always be yourself, they say, unless you can be a tree pirate, the always be a tree pirate. Our old ash tree creaks like a ship and we live in nonchalant fear of it wrecking.

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