No shutterclick could capture you all,
your wealth of seasons – April blossom,
August fruit and October colour. Your dignity
in age, silently staking your place
while putting me so gently into mine.
Your day may come, of course. Twigs torn away
by charcoal-burners, trunk shredded
for pages by avaricious papermakers.
For now, your leaves carry no words
but they still teach as well as any book.
How to survive brutal prunings or
coppicing storms: how to cast a caring
kind of shade. The slow-grown wisdom
of holding your ground while always
leaning into the light.

I remain rooted at your feet, as still
as you stand yourself. A foolish gadfly
autumn forest-bather, drenched
in the gold that you scatter to the wind
and wishing himself one day’s luck
for every leaf he catches. I’ve gathered
a chancellor’s harvest of daydreams
as I stand among your roots, hands clasped
in secular prayer and hoping someone will
catch me when my own seasons spin
and my turn comes to fall.