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
Quite by nature's chance
Three trees are canopied together.
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
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.