The Majesty of Tree

How high great tree, are you to grow?

In the mid-eighties, I was living in downtown Brantford above a bookstore attempting to write a novel, even something that was publishable. It turned out that it was, according to a friend who insisted he give it a try, “unreadable”. That didn’t depress me for I knew what he was talking about. I wrote it. However, aspects of my tomb did appeal, these opening lines about the Majesty of Tree, and the kids who marveled at its length, its strength.

Two friends of mine and I, one B, one E,
Went walking down a leafy country lane.
The measure of the pleasure that we found,
Was resting in the quiet unrestrained.

The path it curved, became a bow of flowers,
The colours light and bright, without the rain.
And yet we heard the sound of falling water,
a clear and unmistakable refrain.

“I think the sound, the water’s in the trees,”
‘Twas B the boy, the smallest of the group.
“I think you’re right,” said E in full accord,
“but how can water hang among the leaves?”

Our ears were full, they took us to the joke,
we followed quickly, laughing as we went.
And there before us, shining in the light,
the breeze was passing through the mighty oak.

“Hello great tree,” said E, givlng it a hug,
she tried to wrap her tiny arms around.
“Its roots must reach the low and deep of earth,
I wonder when the acorn gave it birth?”

“How high great tree,” said B, “are you to grow?”
E looked and said, “As far as high above.”
They stood immersed in mighty oaken strength,
and felt its centred core within their length.

Two friends of mine and I, one E, one B,
Went walking down a leafy country lane.
The majesty of Tree had filled their hearts,
the two of them would never be the same

April 2, 1985

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