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A Younger Tree

It was nearly six

And time

To wind down for the day.

Time for a drink

To start

The evening's tumble into night.

From my window I see Tony

Sitting on the bench

Outside his house.


I wander over

And ask him:

Are you enjoying a peaceful moment?

Or would you welcome company?

We have a chat

And then agree

A glass of chilled white wine

Would be perfect now.

I nip into my house

To my well stocked fridge.

And return with two glasses

Of pinot grigio.

We sit and talk.


The view laid out before us.

Every Pantone shade of green

Set out like a colour chart

In the trees that we can see.

Trees and trees and yet more trees.

Straight ahead

To left and right.

There are three decaying oaks.

But these noble trees

Seem most reluctant

To leave the stage.

Sending out a last defiant burst

Of brilliant green in clumps of foliage.

Making more stark

The grey skeletal frame

Of the dying trees.

There's a perfect curve

Where -

Quite by nature's chance

Three trees are canopied together.

And combined

Produce a sharp green border

As clean as any draughtsman's line

Against the bright blue background sky.

Over to the right

A younger tree.


Straight of trunk.

With leaves of bright, yellowy green.

From that tree

Looking back

It sees across the village green

My house in Suffolk Pink.

The oldest within view.

That tree will be my resting place

When my time on earth is done.

It's where my ashes will be thrown.

So I can always look

Back across this perfect scene

To the house

Where late in life I found some peace.