At the bottom of the garden

stands an ancient lilac tree.

Its flowers have been blooming there

for far more years than me.

 

In summer it’s a parasol

to keep us in the shade

while eating dainty sandwiches

and drinking lemonade.

 

In autumn and in springtime

it was shelter from the showers,

when we were playing football

as we did for hours and hours.

 

And all the way through childhood

the tree was simply there,

an omnipresent refuge

whose beneficence we’d share.

 

Throughout this distant memory

lies a history so vast

as a guardian of the future

and a sentry to the past.