SILVER BIRCH.

Crying child beneath the Christmas tree,
Frame was cracked by ugly distorted faces,
Clutching the photo close, warmth from dying embers,
White winter snow melts away, mud once known.

Lonely faucet starts to leak, monotonous,
Each drip chisels away at the grand oak door,
Weathered and worn, hanging off its hinges,
Book that bears scars, binding frayed, pages burnt.

Ghastly night stalks the Sun, draw the curtains,
Cower behind the armchair, until the very end,
Remembered summers and chance encounters,
Carefree birds peck seed strewn in the garden.

Chasing empty-handed butterflies through the meadow,
A whiskered soldier unaware of what has become,
Laid in the grass, watching silhouettes against the Light,
Unfamiliar floral dress billows, damp and stained.

Boat launches from the beach with so many others,
One way ticket, a basin full of hair and foam,
Carriage retreats through slush, weighed down with gifts,
Silver birch waits impatiently on the hearth.