Did I mention that I seem to be writing lots of tree poems lately? Perhaps because we see in them a reflection of our own growth, maturing, aging and death? While enjoying a rootedness we may envy...

Trees

When I was a child there was a chestnut.

Her candles blazed all May long, giving way

To tawny rubies casked in spiky green,

Her low-arced branches luring me to climb

and conquer.

Later it was a beech tree I loved best.

My auntie had one growing by her gate.

Though she had many shapely arms, she called it

Venus de Milo for her voluptuous torso

And sinewy skin.

Next came a birch, slender silver 

Barred with elegant black, bronze too 

at her wrists, yet tough as tundra, 

And in season a shimmer of shivering, 

Winter-defying gold.

There were many more saplings for my spinney,

Hornbeams and hollies, lissom willows,

Doomed tragedies of elm and ash,

Even a few prickly conifers, and then

There was rowan…

But now I choose you, the oak. Warts and wrinkles,

Scars and crags, you’ve seen off the scourings

Of a good few winters, and got the marks.

Deepest rooted, widest spreading, you shelter 

My grey age to rest.