The Memorial Tree

“No Trespassers”, the sign proclaims,

As I pass by it, from the lane,

Through long grass, rippled by the breeze,

Forward to the brooding trees.

Footsteps muffled by thick leaf mould,

Like skeleton hands, the low twigs hold,

They catch my sleeves, as if in fear,

That I shall find their secret here.

Now suddenly, a clearing, split,

When a dying, plunging, aircraft hit,

A brass plate, fastened to a tree,

On it seven names stare out at me.

I press my fingers to the plate,

Thinking back to that night of fate,

That night of flame, and naked fear,

When a stricken bomber, crashed right here.

Memorial tree, with your long life span,

Far longer still than any man,

You can project for many years,

The memory of what happened here.

Now, as I leave this place of death,

The clearing seems to hold its breath,

On looking back, did I really see,

Seven figures there by the great old tree?

Back in the lane, back in the sun,

Back from the time, when I was young,

I have just seen what I came to see,

A brass plate, on an old, old tree.