Not a leaf left on it now,
No green or gold on creaking bough.
No rustles as the wind runs through;
Whispered words to me, from you.
Its branches snake into the sky,
A winding silhouette up high
Against the rising morning light
A fading memory of night.
A lone bird rests atop the tree,
I feel it look and call to me,
It flies away, again I see
An ever-fading memory.
About the Creator
Samuel Allen
Poet, socialist, pipe-smoker, typewriter-collector, jazz piano, art, chess. Suffolk, England.
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