THE COMPANY OF TREES

 

Writing poetry can be a curious business; sometimes poems have to be struggled over for days, week or months whilst, at other times, they arrive unannounced. I met this poem on a late afternoon walk near my village of Wressle, as I was gazing at the sun setting behind an unassuming copse of trees. There’s a poignant backstory about this particular stand of trees: it was on this spot that, during WW ll, a Royal Canadian Air Force bomber, limping back from a night raid, failed to make the last few miles to safety at (I think) Wombleton and crashed, killing all the crew. Hidden away amongst the trees is a simple memorial to these men, erected by the owners of the land, Elizabeth and Colin Shutt.

 

This is dedicated to the late Roger Deakin, author of ‘Wildwood’, and to everyone who, like me, loves the company of trees.

 

The Company of Trees 

From the earliest time I can recall,

In wood or forest, or alone,

The joyful company of trees

Has thrilled me to the very bone.

Beneath a canopy of leaves

That shade the sultry summer heat,

Or in the winter witch’s grasp,

To the same tune my heart would beat

With earth’s vibrating life and soul,

Attuned, somehow, into my own

(Whilst emanating spirits share

The haunting memories of stones).

 

Perhaps, just like the dreamers say,

Whether in the realms of man

Or in some deep subconscious glade,

I must have seen the great god Pan,

Though by whose blessing this strange gift

Was bestowed on me, it’s not

Within my earthly powers to guess -

Unsure, still, of what I’ve got.

But, in the end, when I am gone,

This epitaph I’d wish to leave:

That those who knew of me will say,

“He loved the company of trees”.