1013

No tree in the park is truly straight,

Each leans slightly one way or the other

So rather than perfection, nature makes

Unique individuals from one mother.

So, Though this park was purpose planned

Nature gently upsets all the care

The gardeners take to keep its shape in hand

And the erstwhile visitors, unaware

Of the hours of work that go into

Making it look simple, just assume

That the occasional tweak is all you have to do

To achieve the wonders now in bloom.

But who trims my deadheads, water my roots

To ensure I thrive and bring new shoots?

Brian Hick September 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 13.10.23

1652

The Ash Tree

In the grey morning, gulls drift overhead

As we drift on towards Waterloo East.

Autumn has returned and in its chill

There's little sense of fruitfulness or Keats'

Abundance as the sodden trackside trees

Await a rotting death of fallen leaves.

The train is silent though the seats are full

As if we were a far-flung family

Returning from the funeral of a child

Each caught up in a passive reverie

Of unrequited grief - the silent pain -

Of loss for love which will not come again.

Outside my office window the ash tree

Waves and shimmers in the autumn sun

Calling me from this depressive verse

Back to a reality long spun

In days of warmth and light, which never cease

When love's compassion brings love's quiet peace.