London Plane

[billy]

i hamartia.
i've been to your poem quite a few times and sadly i don't get it, i desperately want to but it eludes me. that said, i have been called moron on more than one occasion so it could just be me. i giggled at L2 but again i'm a toilet humourist .
i can see that most of the lines are well crafted and so it's hard for me to explain why i can't grasp the intent. my take is it's about the worry of things to come and holding on to the past. i'm sure i'm as far from what you mean as i could be and for that i'm sorry. wish i could have been more constructive but i felt it too well crafted to simply ignore.

no need to explain it less others go oh yeah, i saw that

thanks for the read.

Hello! I'm really very new to poetry - I write a lot but am used to short stories, and so on - and I'd love it if you could have a look over this and tell me what you think. I wrote it a while ago and found it recently, and I'd like to use it as a starting point. Anyway, here goes. Thanks in advance!

London Plane

My favourite trees will forever be those
that keep their nuts long after their leaves,
post-natal depression forcing their saplings
out of existence and into hanging limbo.
These compact memorials to autumns past
cling to the bowed tips of their branches,
like childhood baubles placed with loving precarity
where only small hands can reach,
or too-heavy earrings punched through papery lobes,
over-ripe and uncomfortable.

Were I to find that form at some point in my time,
I fear I would only do the same -
hold my offspring to my chest with tight-tethered reins
that drag me to the floor with worry
whenever the wind blows too quickly for my liking,
whenever rain threatens our solidity.
I would break my own back to stop them straightening theirs,
the way my mother once did for me -
become my own gravestone, populate my own parish
with unkept promises of life.