It has been another year,
and you, sir, are still here
guarding your own plot of eternity,
a solitary elm, outcast beneath the sky.
Here is a focal point, dreaming in fields -
so many years, rooted to one spot,
waiting with indifferent measure
in anticipation of love, or dread of death.
There is danger here;
ready to drop a branch on a sudden whim,
shedding a limb as easily as a snake sloughs its skin
or as the salamander, trapped in fire, loses a tail.

And, too, the old familiars are here
arranging themselves around the bed.
A moon, solemn-faced as she has always been
brooding over lost loves and hopes;
a sun, smiling and golden, a reminder
of that which was green, of the sea, hills and fields;
corn, waving deeply, beckoning forever onward
toward paths that were never trod,
snow-capped peaks that were never reached.
And in the corner of this field, the sentinel elm
is musing upon another life that,
being part of the same dream,
has spent some time within its shade.
There is no need for further telling:
the careless, whispering leaves of the elm speak of everything.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...