To A Beech Tree Poem by Tom Billsborough

Rooted to the soil, illusions
Become delusions.
You stretch your arms towards the stars
Amaze us with your coats of bronze,
Your stature and your great antiquity.
But Autumn brings reality
As leaf by leaf your dreams descend
And scatter at your feet
And signal no escape from cyclic being.
But what of my illusions?
The sap of song creates ambitions
But who will listen? Who will listen?
Am I singing to myself,
As you with your false presumptions?