Poem 76: Southern trees

(This poem is the last of this month’s posting of poems I wrote fifty plus years ago – I think I was in a bad mood about my schooling when I wrote this!)

Skin turns gold in summer.
We’re out of season in this hemisphere.
By autumn we’re the colour of plum blossom
Ready for dropping.

Trees here are born out of time.
Bastards never stood a chance.
Someone cuts them down
In case they fruit in winter.

Nursery care is too long, too slow.
We grow too high to be lights to the world.
I’d rather be scrub
And cover the whole earth.

That’s the trouble with southern trees
When they’re fed on shit from the north.

4 thoughts on “Poem 76: Southern trees

I delight in having my dull life coloured by your intelligent perceptions, your wit, and your vivacity.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s