Beech Poem by William Messent

I am a beech tree. Here I stand,
The tallest tree for miles around;
The proudest tree in all the land,
My branches high above the ground.

I'm never bored just standing here,
There's always something interesting,
No matter what the time of year.
The changing seasons colours bring:

In March, fresh leaves of brightest green
Emerge from copper coloured sheaths.
No brighter foliage will be seen
Upon the other woodland trees.

A bluebell carpet at my feet,
The deepest blue of summer seas.
A wrinkled landscape, rising heat;
Sweet fragrance wafts on sultry breeze.

But then, when Autumn's misty haze
Descends upon the woodland ride,
I yearn for light and summer days
In place of Winter's roaring tide.

In dark December's icy trap
I crave the urgent call of Spring:
New life, the surge of rising sap,
The joy that nesting birds can bring.

Another ring - no need to frown,
Fresh primroses spread round my feet,
They thrive in leaf-mould rich and brown,
And so the cycle is complete