An old man from a casement window looks
upon a tree. The breeze it blows softly,
scuffling the snow. The tree begins, he thinks,
to liken unto him. Those withered limbs
and aged skin, weathered, gnarled and grim.
He gazes out – the tree stares blank and cold.
He cries in pain he writhes he weeps, ‘I’ll not
see another spring.’ The tree stands mute, he shouts
he wails, ‘I’ve seen you grow from tiny seed
When I was but a child. You watch my pain
and stand and stare, my one and only friend. But
do you care a jot and will you bloom when
I am gone, display your flowers of pink
and cream when I’m beneath the soil.’ Old man’s
carried from the house where he’s lived for many a year.
Old tree stands and looks, mute and black just swaying
in the breeze. When Spring comes the tree’s
quite dead nor bloomed another flower. They chopped
it down and dug it out and threw it on
the fire. The gardens paved, the house pulled down,
the memory erased. For man and tree were both
dead wood, their time and place now gone for good.
