She thinks she is like a lily.
She looks strong and straight,
fresh and bold,
strongly scented –
not to everyone’s taste
but loved by some
yet weak inside,
liable to be crushed in the rush,
trodden on carelessly
and damaged beyond repair.
Broken, bowed and wilting.
Petrified.
Never to flower again.

She doesn’t know she is a mighty oak,
when the storms rage and the boughs shake
and the ground trembles below
she might feel she will fall,
but it is an illusion, she is still standing tall
and strong inside, and when the storm
does eventually subside the sun will dapple
her leaves once more
and she will have grown.