I am that Tree - A poem by Clive Martyn

There is a tree,
Twisted,
Broken,
Burnt,
Naked,
Plundered,
Waiting for a spring - that'll never come.
That is me,
Sat on the hill,
Shrouded in darkness,
Waiting,
Left,
Still strong,
But weakened,
Its heart remaining,
Trapped,
Remembering,
Better times,
You,
Us,
Small, gentle flames of memories,
Coaxed,
Shielded,
From the bitter reality,
The long loveless winter.