The Oak Tree
T Tom Billsborough
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Deciduous in the Fall,
Denuded of my cloth of gold,
I build a pyre of yellow flames
Whose gradual ashes at my feet
Renew the forest floor.
I plan my garden with meticulous care
As snowdrops and the aconite appear
And bluebells wash me with their waves of glory.
And raucous sparrows cram my boughs
To dive-bomb insects from the flowers below.
I meditate upon the nourishment I gave,
A wise investment of my sacrificed attire.
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