Our Love Is A Coppice Tree Poem by Mark Heathcote

Our Love is a coppiced tree and if you
just take the time to let it season grow
my love, no matter how low it gets cut
it'll still grow tall leaves in the breeze.

You may at times be left weeping, holding-
on to an apron of cinders, clutching-
to your breast; some charcoal years
but there's a nest our bluebird still sings.

With each coppice, its crowning glory
Sparks a new linden bough—strengthened.
By the sun, ah, how its toughen-gold smartly.
Grows years hence; life forever lengthened.