Nestled between the houses about halfway down the lane,
Stands a contented comforting canopy, a silent witness to our play.
Infected by the summer breeze, leafy shadows scratch the grass,
You stand and watch our lives unfold, do you memorise our past?
Do our tiny loves and legacy still exist in your deep trunk?
Contained by bark and moss and buds and as silent as a monk,
Rejoicing with your arms aloft resplendent to the heavens,
Absorbing lives indiscriminately without any judgement given.
An August shower brings threatening skies that gather overhead,
Fluttering green and menacing grey contrast and feed your memory bed,
Translucent mandolins descend upon your liquid crystal umbrella,
There’s shelter beneath the protective arms of this silent storyteller.
A seasonal shift sees beauty in your sparse autumnal frame,
As golden memory flakes cascade and I feel there is no shame
That your winter vertebrae is revealed, a hibernating bleak antique,
The complex cycle of your charcoal coffin, your lifespan so unique.
Your offspring tumbles to our garden floor and gets swept and blown around,
Are you giving us back snippets of our lives or is that just too profound
An idea for us to contemplate after all you’re just a tree,
Perhaps it’s fine to think these thoughts as you seem to have inspired me.
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