The willow tree
That I sit under
Beckons me to sleep
It holds me tight
Like the memories
I dearly keep.
But once in a while
It brings me despair
Causing me tears.
I couldn't handle
The thought of your
Blood shed and tears.
Instead of facing
The dark abyss
I lay dangling
From the tree's
Branch

From my mind to the keyboard
words that do spill
quill to paper
cursive sureal
imagination stirring
fantasy abounds
a bird sings from pine
flowers I do smell
a jet flying high above
white plumes it makes
writing letters to gods
on clouds they do lay

I can feel something stirring...
Almost like Molten Lava slowly burning
Like a Cup-a-Tea brewing
It's finally settling in
that this is all something already been

As we sit in the tree
- Our Tree -
you're smiling cheekily
you say 'before you go'
placing your hand on my arm
staring with your charm

But I say no

All the complications
and difficulties from before
when you were my beau
still haunt me sore
'cause if we were meant to be
how come when we kiss I feel empty?

Oak Tree, she loves Thunderstorm:
His booming voice ignites desire-
When he lightens the sky and pours down drink
This ancient mother dances like fire

Her bows she waves in gladness,
Her core shivers at his touch,
His winds and torrents she counts caresses
While flowers tremble: his love too much.

Moon winks through the tempest's mantle,
Spying curious revels in the wood,
She tucks herself back behind his shroud
Leaving the dancers to their own good.

                                                 But carousing be it raucous raging as the sea,
                                                    Or gentle as the morning bells' lilting chimes
                                                          ­                All must eventually cease to be

Proud Sun calls out at dawn
To the wood on the edge of the glade.
At his voice Thunderstorm recoils
Sun's rays pierce with blazing blade.

Sun holds no reveler's understanding.
Perceiving Storm the usurper here,
He shines with mightiest will to drive
Away the love of sweet Oak Tree.

Sun turns back to comfort her, gleaming
But her arms show their age in his beams
while flowers rejoice at the dawning
Of him, the object of their dreams.

Now a sweet wind comes blowing
rustling the hair of Oak Tree's leaves,
sends tears showering: dew of last night's dance.
Oh to be a rainstorm! Oak Tree breathes.

The Sun is dazzled by the drops
Who never stood before his face.
Amidst her tears, the Oak Tree laughs
At this morning's strangest grace.

There was a long vanished England
Of well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service, and Children’s Favourites,
Of coppers and tanners, and ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers, and window cleaners.

I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack,
How I loved those Wednesday evenings,
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair
During the mass meetings,
The solemnity of my enrolment,

Being helped up a tree by an older boy,
Baloo, or Kim, or someone,
To win my Athletics badge,
Winning my first star, my two year badge,
And my swimming badge
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.

The rain is falling 
Here
Under this tree where 
No one can harm or
Disturb me as I'm protected from the
Everlasting shield of 
Reaching branches 
Sometimes the rain seeps through
To fall upon my head but that's 
Okay because I'll always
Remember how hard it tried to keep
Me
Safe