A dead tree is sad, but it stands, present,

Benevolent, useful, still in the game.

It has nobility, even when charred

By flames, in the overheat of wartime.

Dead people though, perish in every sense;

Their limp remains plead for quick disposal.

All that’s left is once-removed: memories,

Letters, film of their pomp and garden games,

The sly maintenance of reputations.

Trees, serving nature, have no such baggage.


◄ Glorious Mud

City Tour ►


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Kevin Tan

Wed 25th May 2022 20:12

you're welcome

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Stephen Gospage

Wed 25th May 2022 08:02

Thanks, Kevin. I hope so too.

And thank you, Rudyard.

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Kevin Tan

Tue 24th May 2022 20:06

Hope this poem helped you to drop some of that baggage Stephen. 😃

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Stephen Gospage

Tue 24th May 2022 14:57

Thank you, Bethany, John B and John C. I try to pack as much as I can into each line of a poem and it's gratifying when readers remark on this. (PS It doesn't always work!) John C - I didn't know that about Rutland!

And thanks to Nigel, Frederick, Holden, Bill and K Lynn for liking.

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John Coopey

Tue 24th May 2022 07:36

As Bethany (and Rutland) say, multum in parvo.

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John Botterill

Tue 24th May 2022 00:29

I agree with Bethany. Great poem. Powerful and profound, Stephen.

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Bethany Sallis

Mon 23rd May 2022 22:13

great poem Stephen and as usual choc full of so much in so little!

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