It stood tall once, stately,
Proud of its immensity, its age.
Dominating the village green,
Over-topping the small cottages
Clustered under its wide-spreading
Branches.
It was a king of trees, and stood
As though it knew its status.
The villagers were proud of it.
‘Bin ‘ere since before the war,’
The oldest gaffer used to say.
‘Firs’ war that was. Me Granpa tells
‘Ow ‘e ‘n’ other lads gathered under it
An’ marched off, proud, to beat the Hun.
Then crawled back, two by three. An’ people
Met, an’ stiffened up their spines
To face a new world under that
Ol’ tree.
The seasons turned; from light leaf-green
Of spring, through summer, autumn gold
To winter cold, and gales.
The tree was lashed and beaten, scourged
And whipped, until, giving in to age
And feebleness – it fell.
Villagers mourned its fall. Then, practical,
Gathered its branches to dry for firewood.
The last few feet of trunk left standing,
Humbled.
Until the Carpenter, in kindly pity,
Carved it into patterns of mice and bees,
Birds and butterflies, woodlice and beetles,
That once had made their home
Within its welcome.
Rosi MB
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