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The brittle twigs upon the bough
So frail that surely time must break,
As now this elm bereft of life
Can't brave the winds no more,
The bark hangs limply from the trunk
With every gust a piece does fall,
For ridden with that cruel disease
Of fungus beetle bore.
Yet in defiance it does stand
Alone within this furrowed field,
And casts its shadow on the ground
Although so faint and weak,
The view has changed since when a child
I gazed across this land before,
For now there's only emptiness
The scene so dull and bleak.
For spring shall never come again
Nor shall the leaves adorn the branch,
Where once it stood so proudly and
Did offer peaceful shade,
Its shape and form that graced the way
Now stripped of all its dignity,
With nothing more to offer but
The memories that it made.
The victim of that dreadful plague
That spread throughout the countryside,
The scars of which shall never heal
The wounds will always stay,
As evening falls this tree remains
Its silhouette against the sky,
Forever winter it shall be
As now the years decay.
ANDREW BLAKEMORE
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ANDREW BLAKEMORE
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