The Garden Tree

The tree I planted years ago
Now measures thirty feet or so.
The trunk is long and smooth and tall
And far outstrips the garden wall.
And on the very top, the fronds
Shade several neighbours’ garden ponds.

Drunk one evening for a lark,
I started writing on the bark.
In felt tip pen I wrote a tale
To make the staunchest reader quail.
From bottom up and round and round,
The story started at the ground,
Then wound itself in spiralled glee
Toward the summit of the tree.

But now this little prank’s backfired,
The writing has been much admired,
And now, to my complete alarm,
Old women come to read my palm.