TREE
A tree
is always there –
immovable,
a
living solid friend –
backrest
to the solitary reader,
a
shelter from sudden rain,
the
hollows of its roots
a bed
for summer lovers –
perhaps
a hundred years
of
memories.
You
don’t expect
to wake
one morning
and
find its height
reduced
to length,
the
secret places
in its
roots
indecently
exposed,
and the
unreachable boughs
sad and
defeated
under
your caressing hand.
When a
tree falls
your
whole world rocks
and the
child in you
trembles.
It’s
like coming downstairs
in the
dark night
seeking
comfort,
and
hearing your father cry.
.......................................................................
On seeing Sandra Crook's photograph of a weeping tree, I immediately thought of this poem which I wrote thirty years ago in 1987, the year a hurricane tore down far too many beautiful trees across the south of England. As we have just had another big storm, it seems appropriate to post it here. And it has the requisite number of words!
You can see other 100 word stories via https://rochellewisoff.com/
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