The Round

 
How it stood before it fell
I'll never know, snapped at the root
I'd trusted all those years,
Corsican pines don't do this !
Now there's a pile of logs
not fit for burning
in the Aga made down the road.
Who ever sawed the piece
that lay across the path
has left a pile of 'help-yourself',
two long lengths will stay to rot away
providing homes and food for mushroom threads.

This is a private wood
we have no rights, but tolerance
come each day,well almost,
conscious of the privilege.
Other trees are leaning
root plates torn by wind.
A chap comes round each now and then
we hear his saw and feel the crash.
Some times they take the logs away
enough for a wood-man's fire,
the brash to turn to dust
scattered,random on nature's round-about

The year is almost at an end,
I'll be writing this next year
to tell you of the family
who share their lives with me,
the blackbird who shivers in the bushes,
fern and badger,snowdrops in the spring
brambles black and juicy
rabbits watching, from the warren,
as the moon wakes a sneaking fox.
Yes, next year will be the same
We shall accept the tolerance
say hello to Tranter(this is his wood)
who brings his dogs each day.