The Branch

The old beech branch hangs
above the frozen pond,

crooked now,
its proud reach lowered
by seasons that showed no mercy.

The bark is rough with remembering.

Years have carved their names there,
deep as grief,
deep as love,
deep as the hands of those
who laboured and endured.

And there,
half-swallowed by weather,
almost hidden beneath lichen and frost,

remain four small letters--

CL

loves

VR

Cut long ago
by two young hearts
who believed spring
would always find them together.

The wound has widened.

The wood has darkened.

The heart they traced
has stretched and broken with the years.

Snow settles upon the bent limb
like a blessing
or a farewell.

And the old branch,
gnarled and burdened with its own long life,

keeps their secret,

holding those fading letters

with greater faith

than the hands that carved them.