Trees - or life as we know it

A poem by John Morey

With three trillion trees on the planet
And 400 trees for every living human being
'There must be enough to go round'
(I hear you say.)

It's true.
For now. Maybe. But for how long? … but
I am not here to give you a lecture on the worth of trees
There are others much more qualified than I.
In any case you probably don't need telling.

No. I am here to discuss something much more compelling.
Something or someone.
You.
Or 'us'. Mankind. So consider this:

Trees have roots.
To begin with they spread not very far from the centre,

The trunk.
They are matched by an equal radius above ground.
By branches.

Is that not the same for you and I?

When we were young, our roots – our experiences – grew downwards
For stability.
But not so much outwards
For knowledge.

That came later. For most. Hopefully.

We are nourished – nurtured – by our parents
(Again, hopefully!)
In the same way that rainfall and minerals feed the tree.
Through its roots.
(Or in our case, by families. Not always our own.)

But what of branches – the visible signs of growth?
Of progress?

They are equally modest.
Whilst blossoming with flower, leaf and fruit,
Initially this is poor compared with what is to come,
As the tree grows with each season and ring.

Are we not the same?

Consider also the tree whose leaf, blossom and fruit -
Its visible signs of progress -
Show poorly against it's neighbours. Its peers.
Is that not a consequence of a poor root system?

How will we know without digging
Deep into the root system of either -
Of tree, or of person?

More to the point, do anyone care?
Perhaps we should, otherwise, there lies the danger.

'There but for the grace of me do you live. Survive. Thrive.'
(Says the woodsman with his axe.)

'There but for the grace of me do you breathe. Grow. Exist.'
(Says the tree with its roots. Branches. Leaves. Flower. And Fruit.)

Most importantly its oxygen
Born of its passive soul.

Try: 'The Willow' - and Britain's favourite - The Oak

For more poems and short stories...

READ MY SHORTS

An anthology of poems, short stories, memories and recollections of the author's earlier life in a typical English village - Blaby, Leicestershire.

"Wood Spirit"
A anthology celebrating nature's most precious gift

The Black Hound of Dartmoor - and other less spooky tales