New Novel Writer
I am an old tree.
Dead.
Some would say worthless,
Apart from those within my domain
Who live among my impotent limbs.
​
For some I am a permanent home;
Others see me as a convenience.
Within my bark lies refuge,
Shelter and food
For insects and small creatures.
​
What little remains of branches
Provides a resting place.
Not permanence for the feathered,
Or a place to bring up family;
Unless they should burrow deeper
Into my soul;
Into my lifeless trunk.
​
I may sprout green again
Even though it is merely grass,
Or weed. Sometimes bloom.
Seeded in dust and dirt
Collected after death.
​
Those shoots are not mine;
Nor my children.
Born of seed borne by bird,
Or by wind,
I am merely their host.
​
I see myself in humankind.
In that world, the old and dead
Often leave a legacy.
​
If I do leave something behind
The recipient has little choice
In who benefits from my gifts;
Whether dead, or dying.
​
Some take little pieces from me,
Material or spiritual -
On loan as it were.
​
Others who win title and rights -
May take the inherited riches;
Take them for their own purpose.
​
Ideally, there is a third way
To taking what is left.
To build on and, from my bounty,
For the good of many.
Liken this to the axe-man who,
Seeing my treasure, harvests it.
Secures my worth for himself
Or for others, before decay
And disintegration
Set in.
​
The alternative would be
For me to disappear,
Or be taken without a care.
​
Fire is what I fear most.
​
Now that would be the real loss.
​
Copyright J S Morey 2020
Also, consider: The Hawthorn; The Oak;
Spirit of the Woods; Trees
The Dead Tree image courtesy of
Unsplash and Arun Clarke