Wednesday, April 2, 2008

At the tree

To this tree I sadly wander,
Sit and in reflection squander
Many hours, in which I ponder
Life’s long road from birth to tomb.
Holly, swerving ‘pon that Honda
To this tree that spelt her doom.

‘Neath these branches, grandly spreading,
Watching leaves now lightly shedding,
Here I rest, on compost bedding,
Contemplating life anew,
Where we sat and planned our wedding
‘Ere that blast of chill wind blew.

Trees? Oh chop ‘em down and burn ‘em!
True, I started once to learn ‘em,
But this giant at my sternum
Could be alder, elm or yew.
Maybe cedar or laburnum –
Frankly, I don’t have a clue.

Holly, she was just my elder.
On a date I often held ‘er,
Took her palm and gently smelled ‘er
Perfume daubed upon her wrist.
Much more pop’lar than Imelda,
With whom I’d once had a tryst.

Unlike Olive, plane but tender,
Dad a Cypress moneylender,
Mam an Aspen gender-bender,
Hazel eyes and chest nut big.
Willowy she was and slender,
But she did not give a fig.

As I said to Rowan and Edward.
This ashen girl from Holyhead would
Go like any girl so red wood,
Spruce in imitation fir.
Now alas, she’s merely dead wood.
In her box, I think of her.

“Life’s a beech,” she told the vicar,
In a life like Alan Wicker,
But she was too fond of liquor
And missed the turn doing ninety four.
The bike was sick and I was sicker
But sadly she was sycamore.
Another bash at the tree homework