Poor little tree
the tortured, twisting tree
battered by the wind
off the cruel North Sea

Tapping at the window
crying: ’Please help me,
I’m a young thin tree.’
Pounded through the night then
shattered, ruined, brought by the lee.


In the stillness of the day
I stand where you now lay
And though it’s true
you were blocking the view
I’m still sorry for you.

That blue and yellow bird
so regularly heard
habitually clings
and cheerfully sings.
But where he sits with the other tits
he can no longer see the sea.
That favourite perch will no longer be.


A final taunting breeze
stirs the dying leaves

A rabbit watches boldly
Scram rabbit, I say coldly


Poor tree,
inspiring poetree
in me.