The Stour Tree

Comfy is the shadow,
Of a stour tree you are.
You grew on a desolate land,
Where you are solitary,
Under your shade shelters the rest.

You are desolate,
But still has the fortitude,
To give a haven to all,
Untamed animates around,
The saplings that sprout,
Aliens and acquaintances,
Both feel the fancy you give.

They hope to inhabit your shadow forever,
'Cause it gives them peace when confused,
They breathe in fresh air when suffocated,
And solicit hope under you when its gone.
It offers warmth and unlimited love to all.

Forever never lives for true,
I can assure that from you,
'Cause your branches are withering,
And the cushy shadow diminishing.
I see it come,
Your fortitude deviating,
And the haven dissociating,
Untamed animates scattering,
The saplings dying away,
The aliens and acquaintances separate,
As the fancy you give sneaks away,
It pests to see your mightiness escape.

I walk about and see,
The compulsion of reservation,
Of the dying mickle trees,
'Cause they feed us the strength to move,
And offer the only love that is true,
Comfort and hope.
We live and see them leave,
Never to find the same trees again.

©chris