Leaflet Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

One hundred ten from acorn cup
my trunk, once slender, up and up
advanced to tickle sun and moon:
I versify. Life's afternoon
slips into eventide to sup
beside the golden buttercup, -
among the joyous saplings strewn
no longer hidden, bounty, boon.

From sunrise smile with dewdropp pearls
whose tears deck leaves as each uncurls,
from breath by photosynthesis
to death without a goodbye kiss,
from sapling which warm zephyr twirls
to gnarled old wood with outgrowth burls,
on how I live, on that and this,
my roots reflect before abyss
recycling swallows branch and twig.
I realize life's whirligig
spins rings concentric marking time
to final season's reasoned climb,
from shoot to trunk and branches big
where grunting pigs for truffles dig,
plays panorama pantomime
from small to tall productive prime.

Although deep rooted, tree to tree
transmits, receives, all share lore we
from long lost Ents once learned before
our quintessential none ignore
fixed time and place as by decree
we walked no longer.By degree
our waiting, shepherd like, restore
to earth a balance more and more
contested by Man's needless squander
from here unto the wild blue yonder -
None urban grey smog clogs dismiss
as harmless. Men must reminisce:
as chickens home to roost will wander
humanity, no time to ponder,
earthshaking tipping point most miss,
adieu all joy, adieu stalled bliss.


One hundred years and ten I oak
through summer sun and winter cloak
bore witness to the seasons' change,
to human intercourse, exchange,
from hoarfrost leaflessness to soak
when purple, yellow, crocus poke
amid the dew while worming range
both early bird and shadows strange.

'Mid shadows numberless' my shade
spreads out amid the gladding glade,
where hollyhock and lupin rise
to draw light's glory from the skies.
May life for men spread unafraid
and unpolluted, story laid
to greet with open-eyed surprise
life's weather in whatever guise.

One hundred years and ten I tree
extend my branching canopy,
while underground in silence spread
stretched roots beneath man's heedless tread.
Pride spread within, while babe, born free,
from stripling sped to cemetery,
leafed out a destiny, which, read,
showed little purpose, tail or head.

Man's generations come and go,
ignoring seasons' reasoned flow,
would all control to leave a mark
or heartless heart on rugged bark.
But patient bark will overflow
this rapid race whose trace may know
no glory when their story stark
is told by ants in days now dark.

One hundred years and ten. I see
woodpeckers knock, - fragility
despite umbrella overhead,
beside the shallow riverbed.
There beech and birch accompany
pine saplings b[l]eached by destiny.
There willow waves her streaming head,
there thoughts foregather, nothing dread.

Man's generation climate change
prepares - for tree 'tis passing strange
to feel through signals in the air
ice melting round the polar bear.
This threatens tree: new insects range
from south to north, thus rearrange
established patterns everywhere, -
some species sink, jinx can't repair.

One hundred years and ten, few things
today seem stable, stay Time's stings,
like Cupid's dart, swift disarrange
the plans of mice and men, while mange
rots fur once fine, wine tart turns, strings
of cause, effect, converge, which brings
cusp watershed - yet still life streams
bark, branches, raft, recrafting dreams.

Here see the brambles' carefree play,
here too wild roses mild display
their petal banners white and pink
recorded now inink.
Here too find peace and balmy breeze
which laughs at man's fatuities,
while honey bees buzz through and link
Nature's cycles while we think.

One hundred years and ten my rings
record life's word, clima[c]tic swings
from summers indian and drought
to winters harsh and frozen out.
Yet 'permanence' like many things,
is only relative - Time's wings
ambitions and conventions flout,
wage war on s[t]age, deception, doubt.

Tree tale is drawing to its end
with naught to strive for, naught defend,
as neutral witness I record
what winds have borne of bed and board.
Leaf blows from branch, Time's wind may lend
one hundred years of bough and bend
until the final bow cuts cord,
leaves die a log by sunlit sward...