Gnarled

A massage after work today and my route home was different.

I detoured through the Barbados St cemetery in search of my blip. Across the road this uprooted oak on the banks of the Avon River cried out to me.

"Pick me, pick me. For the sun shines on me and heightens my gnarled and twisted shapes. I no longer stand but slowly die, I am gracious and all the more interesting in my slow decline. Pick me, don't bike past, next time you pass I will probably be firewood".

And so I did.