The Long Slow Death of Brambles

The brambles have grown here for generations,
a bit of family history you learned recently,
as your father, with his last working brain cells
told the stories that explained everything,
Told them too late for the small boy
who once followed him around needing too much
what he did not have to give.

The brambles he clambered through as a boy,
that you struggled through the bulk of your life,
built for protection, but as it turned out,
protected nothing or no one. A false wall
that wounded those who tried to cross.
Even you. Even him.

But the truth has power.
and there is no such thing as too late for the soul.
There are clippers for every thickness of bramble,
sharp blades. No briared branch is safe and
with enough determination and time
these pointed branches will be cut away
and you will see the sea beyond for the first time,
a boy again.

About this poem

A poem about therapy, about brambles, with a dash of personal history thrown in. A poem about therapy. Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture was taken at the Senior George HW Bush’s church in Kennebunkport, Maine. The sea is just beyond the brambles.

Tom