The Neighbourhood Tree

The tree has been taken away,

cut off from the mid of its trunk,

which now stands alone,

the rest of its torso absent.

It was a silent spectator,

of laughter in its shade, of the yells and screams,

of children that dived into the muddy stream,

formed after torrentous rain.

It was there as a talisman,

every morning and evening,

a companion on a wintry dawn,

standing tall and sturdy.

It dawned on me today,

why the sky seemed so far away,

why the absence of something,

was so confounding.

I soon realised the great, old tree had been chopped off,

taken away.

The carts stood alone, without the welcome shade.

All what was left was half of its trunk, standing alone.

Beans hanging from its branches,

Plucked and eaten away,

Without thought or gratitude.

It now flits across my memory as the friend once there.

I yearn for it to come back again,

To stand again, tall and mighty,

as the silent spectator, as the talisman,

as a memoir of the days gone by.

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