The Ageing Tree

The Ageing Tree

An old oak tree stands in the way, seeing time
Pass like a butterfly. Leaves cover it, a lace
Veil shadowing the face of a bride from day.
This tree has watched over
Life, ageing as seasons of the wind pass;
Twisting with the vines of ivy,


Branches grow. Reaching out towards, the little girl Ivy
Touches the ring of time
Edged out on the skin of bark. A man passes
Angling his fedora low, finger tips touching brass buttons, lacing
Up the seams of his coat, blocking out dust of colours. Over
In the distance, a young lady lights up, releasing spirits of smoke into daytime.


Day by day,
The oak tree seeks these people; Ivy
With her pink satin dress and curls off to school. The man with his fedora over
In the business offices; the young lady smoking, glancing over the time
Passing with each puff. They are binned into the ground like roots, laced
Into veins of leaves. They are apart of tree, forever in the passage


Of memory. Always together with the passing
Of seasons as the oak tree is deepened with reds and golds of days,
Bare and naked with coldness, covered in white lace
Of snow. Winter melts into spring, buds of ivy
Pop transforming into the greens of summer-time.
These seasons bring forth dreams and hopes of change for them, the world. Over


Years, they continue to cross paths; tree and soul. Little girls growing over
Childhood walls and fitting into teenage ones. Passing
Business men retire but come everyday at noon wondering where the fellow of time
Has gone. Young ladies who where once carefree with days,
Now count the minutes of them on red-painted fingernails, not wanting to lose the ivy
Of their beauty. Laced


With the lives, the oak tree ages; slowly leaves of green turn brown, lace
Falling. Hours of thread twist and turn covering over
Its rough aging skin, weakening the insides, killing it: poison ivy.
Memories fade, popping like bubbles as new people pass;
Glancing up at this old oak tree, watching it age. Day
Becomes night and night become day. Second by second, time


Passes along. The little girl, Ivy is old and bitter, wearing the black lace veil of mourning, casting shadows over. The young lady had long died, her lungs blackened with smoke at 30. The man is old and wrinkled with time like the oak tree, counting his last days bye.