Our Love Is A Coppice Tree Poem by Mark Heathcote

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

You may at times be left weeping, holding
on to a handful 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.