The Tree
It’s a beautiful large tree that has stood for many years,
It’s photographed, it’s admired, it’s worthy of the stares.
It has withstood searing heat, blasts of hail and gale force wind,
It’s a strong tree, a tall tree, a tree that’s very thick-skinned.
It’s the children’s favorite, they can climb it easily,
Its trunk has many branches arranged most supportively.
Its trunk has nooks and crannies that give hands and feet a grip,
But even though that be so, sometimes shirts and pants still rip.
They clamber up its branches, far too high for their own good,
And no doubt a lot higher than their mother said they should.
They treat it as a lookout, they rock branches to and fro,
And midst delight and horror, there’re thumps on the ground below.
It’s the home of nesting birds whose chorus is heard at dawn,
It’s a high-rise nursery crowded with noisy newborn.
It’s a lofty launching pad where baby birds quickly learn:
That flying comes naturally, and they only get one turn.
It’s the playground of spry cats, who soon scale its height with ease,
And when they can get the chance, those winged creatures love to seize.
They’re ever on the lookout, and they have the expertise,
Though when they’ve been successful, they still seem to have to tease.
It’s a haven from canines, a feline sanctuary,
It’s a place to laze and perch ’neath the chirping symphony.
It’s a place to sharpen claws and survey the scenery,
Or to shelter from the sun midst the shady greenery.
If this tree could speak like us, there are tales that it could spill,
But trees are not like humans, they’ve no way to kiss and tell.
Thus, things that it has witnessed, that is, metaphorically,
It is keeping to itself -- now, isn’t that gentlemanly.
By Lance Landall