I return home:
To my friend the jack tree, who like me is now seasoned,
With several long years of warmth, of heat ,oft wet and cold,
Torrents of trickles running down to a land seemingly so parched,
Happily in service as shocks are so effortlessly absorbed,
Wind and storm in awe we separated and withstood,
Tired sit out for those seeking some weary shade,
Some traveller so burdened by life’s incertitude,
Immeasurable girth of timber to be serially logged,
Its fruits now so valueless, deceptively porcupined,
So multiple clogged, thinly but firmly ratcheted
The more we endure, the more mature and so well needed,
Assure to my insecure self that we shall be ripened and sawed,
So that the future is always built on the past that passes by unnoticed.
Except that irreverent sound of a fall; the irrelevant thud which can be avoided.