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Against All Odds

On Windsor's bank a sapling grows,

straight-backed and graceful, light on leaf.

A slender willow yet to weep,

supportive stakes, no sign of grief.

Ten paces to her left resides,

a hollowed bole, two metres wide,

where once a mighty willow bowed

and dipped its tresses sweeping green

into the cooling water's flow.

I do not know what fate ordained,

or why or how this tree was felled.

Today I heard it call to me.

'Don't fret or grieve for me', it said.

'Look closer at my roots where shoots

will prove I live, I am not dead'.