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Poetry

The Copper Beech

He loved the Copper Beech,
it gave his whitewashed cottage
all its colour in the summer,
spring and autumn,
then splayed its sturdy veins
in winter sun against the walls
to hold them firm
against a cold, wild nature.

In warmer times
it cooled him
when his work around the fields
was done, he'd sit back
in his canvas chair
and stare through endless,
changing shapes, foreign countries
in the boughs and branches.

As autumn swept its waves
and changed the landscape,
flaring wild then dying down,
he'd fetch his linen sacks
and pick each fallen leaf
from hardening ground
to keep for shortened afternoons
in frost-lined shadows.

Then, in his winter brazier,
he'd gently tip reminders
of the hot field days,
re-kindle them and rub his hands
to conjure once again
the changing shapes in poker flames
now dancing by the naked Copper Beech,
crackling farewells in amber smoke.

Copyright Bare Nibs 2009

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