The End Of An Age Poem by Robin Fulton

The chestnut they said had stood for seventy years.
Its whiteness in May, redness in September,
thin scrolls of long fingery twigs,
were things expected of it.
The tree was an obvious landmark, like a hill.
The little people hurrying about the place,
their heads packed with intricacies,
their feet not in the habit of standing still,
slightly envied the tree
for adding such tiny cubits to itself.
At last, for safety´s sake it had to come
and, falling, for the first time became heavy.
A man with an axe sorting it all out
but making slow work
said "A tree´s complicated when it´s down."