The Dead Man's Tree by Chris Ingham

The Dead Man's Tree

My lazy holiday morning routine
Was suddenly disturbed by the rifle
Crack of the tree shattering, breaking clean
In two. It hovered momentarily
While I watched, cursing petulantly.

The tree surgeon clambered, chainsaw weaving
A magician's spell as branches tumbled
And crashed groundwards, leaving me wondering
About the ironic, lurking canker
Beneath roughcast strength, weakening ever.

Now there is nothing but a fifty ring
Stump, oozing sap, surrounded by woodchips
Dispersed on the ashen earth, reminding
Me of the day when I, at your request,
Scattered your fifty-year ashes to rest.

I had met you only but fleetingly,
A gnarled, farming man with grey roughcast hands
And the taciturn strength of one who works lonely
In a tactile world, where hands touch birth, death.
So, I was stunned when you gasped for breath.

You touched the tree, grey hand on gnarled grey trunk,
And with sand papery voice a quiver
You told of planting it the day you sunk
Your life into the endless toil of soil,
The stability that counteracts turmoil.

Mid winter day, grey south easter blowing
Your wife stood at my door, death urn in hand.
You had died, fifty years young, one evening,
Eaten away by the lurking canker,
The creditor moving to foreclosure.

Now I stand, watching late into the night,
The burning remnants of the dead man's tree,
And watch the sparks like souls taking flight.
I kneel, supplicate, like one who has sinned
And cast the dead man's tree's ash to the wind.

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The Dead Man's Tree
by Chris Ingham (Age: 62)
copyright 03-01-2002

Age Rating: 18 to 127

Prose-n-Poetry.com

The Dead Man's Tree by Chris Ingham (Age: 62) copyright 03-01-2002 Age Rating: 18 to 127

The Dead Man's Tree
by Chris Ingham (Age: 62)
copyright 03-01-2002

Age Rating: 18 to 127