A Woody Moral

The trees in the wood,

stood tall and proud.

For each was content to be part of a crowd.

 

Yet just beyond their eaves,

Stood one all alone.

Just a mischance to where he had grown.

 

His nut it had bounced,

His nut it had rolled.

Ending its journey in a warm earthen fold.

 

He too grew straight,

He too grew proud.

But unfortunately not one of a crowd.

 

He asked a spirited squirrel,

Who visited one day.

‘Do you know a way I can return, do pray?’

 

The squirrel thought hard,

The squirrel thought long.

The squirrel said, ‘You are where you belong.’

 

The tree disagreed,

He yearned to be home.

He wanted his roots to share the same loam.

 

He annoyed a magpie,

Who chattered quite angrily.

‘Foolish tree, you live here, not there, actually.’

 

He bothered a weasel,

He woke a hedgehog.

He even worried a migrating bullfrog.

 

Each responded,

In various ways.

‘Be content with yourself to the end of your days.’

 

‘Seek not to be one,

In a million crowd.

Don’t live your life under this grey cloud.’

 

‘Look around,

We do stress.

See the bountiful freedom you possess.’

 

Tree though was blind,

He saw not the good.

He ached to be one in the million wood.

 

Years passed by,

Decades came and went.

The tree he grew all withered and bent.

 

His sap was bitter,

His leaves pockmarked with strife.

His branches they were empty of life.

 

Then man came a calling,

His axe it shone bright.

He looked at the tree all mangled with self spite.

 

The axe bit deep,

The axe cut true.

The tree it did wail as the axe it did hew.

 

The trees in the wood,

Stood tall and proud.

Then deep in sorrow, their branches, they bowed.

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