Death of a Beech

With roots sunk deep,
leaves a sail
and trunk a mast,
it bent all day.

I’d like to think
it didn’t give in
but in the night
sailed away.

A Space in the Trees

The forest has its own memories:
the trickle of a stream,
snap of a twig,
screech of a pheasant,
drops dripping from leaves
the cuckoo’s call...
But for today, I think back
to when there were fields,
open skies and a farm,
where my father looked up
from chopping wood
and smiled at me..


The Holly

I envy that sycamore
the way those leaves
blush before they fall.
The way it offers
itself fully to the wind,
bares trunk and branches,
then starts again.

The Copse

Close knit pines
crowd the stumps and sawn off branches
silent, mourning their loss.

A ploughed field, now,
where soon they'll be no sign
of those that got left behind.

In the Mouth

'All that's left of Latin',
they said 'are dead roots'.
But in my garden
wisteria sinensis,
magnolia stellata,
fuchsia gracilis,
all still bloom.

Tristan Moss

If you have any comments on these poems, Tristan Moss  would be pleased to hear from you.