He loved the Copper Beech,

it gave his whitewashed cottage

all its colour in the summer,

spring and autumn,

then splayed its sturdy veins

in winter sun against the walls

to hold them firm

against a cold, wild nature.

In warmer times

it cooled him

when his work around the fields

was done, he'd sit back

in his canvas chair

and stare through endless,

changing shapes, foreign countries

in the boughs and branches.

As autumn swept its waves

and changed the landscape,

flaring wild then dying down,

he'd fetch his linen sacks

and pick each fallen leaf

from hardening ground

to keep for shortened afternoons

in frost-lined shadows.

Then, in his winter brazier,

he'd gently tip reminders

of the hot field days,

re-kindle them and rub his hands

to conjure once again

the changing shapes in poker flames

now dancing by the naked Copper Beech,

crackling farewells in amber smoke.