Before I describe what my next book “Aesop’s Leap – Fables for Today” is actually going to be, here is a kind of precursor, which I wrote last week.



Some people are trees, shedding and growing leaves

for their own internal reasons. Others are steeples,

reaching for the skies with unchanging lines,

whatever the season. (Conifers are off

that list but don’t affect our broader gist.)

Some might say that while a tree abounds with life,

a steeple simply stands there, piercing air,

or that where a tree will bloom and waste,

a steeple shows consistent spindly grace – all true.

Each too can be a launchpad for imaginative leaps:

the willow that weeps, the spire that dreams

(and see how all at once we’ve leaped

from steeple to spire – a spire which maybe

rises where a steeple tends to teeter).

Some people are trees – others spires or steeples,

but all of these together cannot hope to live forever,

so if and when we see them hold their ground,

and find that it’s important they’re still here,

it may help us as much as them to stop and give a cheer.