The gnarled tree reaches out seeking the blessed light,
its limbs wizened and withered with its age unspoken,
and it can see in the next yard the next batch of young ones,
planted as harbingers of the future that looks more certain.
And yet each year, the tree gives up its fruit for the picking,
berries ripe red and in the early morning dew, glistening,
even as the new plants take root and rise proud and straight,
and soak up all the attention of the men like sponges swelling.
As they cluck regarding the fall in yield of the older trees,
the trees themselves stand and think of that they witnessed,
the whites as they came and went and the others that passed,
the traditions that had changed and the waves of cultures.
And wonder what is of greater value to the man that plants,
the quantity of berries they give out each year unfailingly,
or the legacy that each of them bore, the endless summers
and winters that like rings of honour that they each wore.
While the tree pondered on the reasons for his existence,
a sudden swich precedes the thwack of the blade that bites,
deep into its trunk and cuts it’s very life out, a dark scythe,
that puts a swift ruthless end to its proud existence in a trice.
No comments:
Post a Comment