The Old Lane Tree

February’s cold and slicing east wind
Foretold the imminent storm,
And while out for an early morning run
On the tree-lined road, I stopped,
Not from weariness, but because suddenly
I just wanted to listen.

The eerie wind whistled its warning
And sleet pellets slid about
In a persistent high-hat rhythm.
One resonant voice joined in –
The humored creaking and groaning
Of the old lane tree.

He was reacquainting with the world
And slowly dancing, seeming to enjoy
The opportunity to stretch his stiff limbs,
While recounting far better gales from ages past
And catching up on news from afar.

Then suddenly, as if noticing my trespass,
And dismissing my impermanence,
He patiently refused my eavesdropping
And went silent,
And I padded away.

– Graham Buck