The Tree

by Peter Smith

I came across a tree one day,

And in its shade I heard it say;

“Oh please, kind sir, please leave me be,

For I am but an old oak tree.”

I fell back in a startled fright,

For I must not have heard that right,

There’s no way that a tree could speak,

Nor would one this great be so meek.

And so I asked; “Who just said that?”

Hearing not mouse, nor bird, nor bat.

“Twas me,” I heard from log of oak,

And thought that my mind had been broke.

I said with sense; “I must be mad,

For I almost thought that I had

Heard this great oak tree talk to me,

But trees don’t talk, so mad I be.”

Then said the tree; “You are quite sane,

A tree who speaks is somewhat plain,

For lots of trees can do the same,

I ask you sir, what is your aim?”

Knowing that I was sound of mind,

I said; “Great tree, my aim is kind,

I do not wish to bring you harm,

Just rest in shade cast by your arm.”

The tree sighed and said; “You may sit,

It would be nice to talk a bit,

It’s been some time since I last met

Someone who did not pose a threat.”

So right down with a grin I sat

And with the great tree had a chat.

“So tell me tree, how many years

Have you watched time pass while sat here?”

“Good sir, I’m ancient, I would be

Ten times ten times as old as ye.

I’ve seen more cold times come and go

Than days it took for you to grow.”

“You said it’s plain for trees to talk?”

“Yes” The Tree said, at which I balked

“The Ash and Thorn I do entreat

Not here, but through our roots we meet.

“Us Great Old Trees all send our words

Through roots to carry ‘round the world.

We speak to guide all our kin’s course

As trees on Earth do grow more sparse.”

“As trees grow sparse?” I asked with fear.

“But Earth would die were trees not here!

Your presence here doth let us breathe

And in clean, safe, air the world wreathe.”

“Oh, Good Sir, you do be quite wise,

A trait quite rare in those your size.

Your kind for mine has no regard

They chop us down, much land they’ve marred.”

“They must not know what harm they do!”

“Good Sir, they’re not all kind as you.

If to be like you they’d aspire,

Then things might all be much less dire.”

“I did not know,” I said with shame

“That my kind marres the land with flame.

We set our course to our own doom,

Seeking to make our world a tomb.”

Our talk went on till it grew dark

Wisdom in me the tree did spark.

But the time came, I had to leave

I knew that for the trees I’d grieve.

I left the place with great purpose

I would not let my kind doom us

In face of greed we must have spine

And then the world may turn out fine.