Good morning, good afternoon and good evening readers,

Sat on the beach a few weeks ago, I was doing my usual routine of observing everyone before I go and speak to them. I always thought I should rid myself of this habit, but on that day I realised how much inspiration it can bring to my writing. This poem grew from simply seeing the number of dreadlocks on this beach. I thought about how I perceived those with them, seeing them as free.

Then after numerous conversations I learnt how some people here felt out of place in their hometowns and countries. This beach is one of their many homes, where they can be their true selves. But still I couldn’t help but think, despite all the freedom they gain, what do they lose in leaving their roots? Or have they simply found bliss in their roots here? Branches born to the wrong tree. Is the pain of leaving your habitat behind to find a new home worth it? Do we grow from severed roots? Or are the roots always with us, no matter how far we grow? From these thoughts this poem stems.

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Roots

The vines are so beautiful, and they twist and turn so freely.

But veined ropes stem from branches with sheaths,
As weathered woods break free from circling wreaths,
Those tying and undying chords outgrowing ancestral barks.

Gnawing at their roots. Until they turn to dust.

Dewy tears seep like leaves in the Autumn,
And the rain beats at our grains, our fingertips.

Here I sit, like an aged old tree waiting for the next ring to grow.