Martyr

I stood forlorn, my boughs weighed heavy; a shadow of myself, in a corner of the garden.

Half hidden behind the garden shed, head bowed, ashamed.

At first I had been elated at my promotion;

From pot to soil, inside to out.

No longer trivial - a plaything, dressed up by children in gaudy sash,

but free to reach up high, to feel the sun, to sink my roots into endless, soft earth; to live.

But was this living?

A fruitless existence, a friendless realm.

There was no admiration from sparrow or wren, no lit-up faces, no squeals of joy.

Just tiny claws scratching, beaks pecking, grubs burying beneath my bark.

Beneath the soil my roots assaulted by shrew and mole;

Above, no star atop, just scorching sun, gusty gale or hurtling hail.

Slowly, over time, perspective was gained. Hope lost. Why go on?

Unwanted, unloved, abused and neglected.

Until one day... one frozen, sodden, miserable day, he came.

With a spade those roots were severed, an unbearable pain, and then nothing.

Awoken, a welcome transformation, the better of two evils, warm and dry

Baubles, tinsel and a star - that star!

I was reborn, loved by all, a willing martyr.