protector against the rainstorm's drench.
In a landscape blotted from view, you alone
are my point of reference, my marker for
all seasons. Keeping watch over me.
Alive with the sound of new life;
magpie sentry spring-boarding aloft.
Sweet song call of a cheeky blackbird with
beak as golden as an Admiral's braid, pierces
the morning, he's calling for his love.
And now it is spring and your sap begins
to rise, youthful as ever with your heart
Of strong, sound, firm timber. Each branch yet
pliable and responsive to every breath
of wind that whips and plays with your
foliage exploding like fireworks from
sticky buds of promise.
I dream of sitting high on a bough
and hiding amongst your leaves.
How good it feels to walk beneath your branches
and to know you are always there waiting for me
to share in your wonderful story.
My dear friend,
sweet Sycamore.
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