The Oak Tree

No one planted you in that wooded strip;
a hundred years or more ago
an acorn fell from a mother oak,
welcomed by moist mother earth,
and grew and grew, life surging through
to build the massive tree we found
shadowing our grassy garden.
Your roots spread deep as you were high.

You were not arrogant in your might,
but noble and brave as a lion.
Was one such as you fit to shelter a king?
Your trunk, pitted, gnarled and gashed
like crevices in a rock face
was several metres around,
wide enough to conceal children
playing their game of hide and seek

and providing ample grip for the squirrels
I watched from my study window,
climbing and skipping like a whisper,
dancing along your lower branches,
chasing a mate for fun.
In autumn they scampered about,
neatly burying fallen acorns, treasure for winter,
pushing them into the lawn with their mouths.

And what fun you gave to the children!
Playing like squirrels
among your branches.
With ladders we installed
Zip-wires, a platform - and a safety net
and from a lofty branch a long rope swing.
I pushed shrieking grandchildren
till their feet kissed the fence.

Your muscular limbs spread wild and free
looking down on roof tops,
your topmost leaves fluttering in the breeze
reaching to tickle the clouds.
I dreaded autumn's arrival, soft and cool
as the lawn received a crunchy blanket,
and I filled sacks and sacks of ripe, wrinkled,
rust-coloured leaves, prepared to become plant food.

Then the sun set on our sojourn there.
New owners rushed to tear you down.
Men sliced and sawed through your majestic trunk
carved your stately branches into lumps of logs.
The neighbours rejoiced, with no more leaves to clear.
But I pray that I am not cut down
when I am least expecting it;
though I may not live a hundred years or more.

                                                               June 2020