The Choice of Trees
by P.J.Reed
The silver birch ripples
As soft shadows race;
Leave dark footprints
Through its hidden soul.
Timid, trembling leaves,
Confetti sprinkled
On swaying brown tendrils
Flowing softly in the breeze.
The birch stands tall,
Straining over rooftops,
Silently watching
The people pass by.
From seed inception
Fated to become
A silent, living statuary.
Or had it the choice to be
A hidden, dark leaved
Forest tree
Or perhaps in some distant world,
Its greenery was never
Meant to be
But could a softly swaying
High street tree
Choose a different
Place to be?
Copyright ©: P.J.Reed
End of the poem
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