A REAL TREE FOR CHRISTMAS

By Peter Woodgate 

Lying on the rubbish tip,

Tossed aside, now brown and spent,

A vivid chapter, all too brief,

Adorned, adored and redolent.

 

Its branches, once, were draped with balls,

The tinsel glistened bright,

Twinkling lights caressed its boughs

And shimmered through the night.

 

But this aesthetic glory

Masked loss beyond repair,

Its roots they had been severed

A short time left to share.

 

And now it’s left to decompose,

A small child passes, out at play,

He stops and looks at needles lost,

Sadness felt at its decay.

 

For what though is it that he sighs?

Thoughts of memories now past,

Anticipation, short-lived joy,

And happiness that doesn’t last.

 

Back in his room, the toys are stacked,

Some in their boxes, never used,

He’d wandered out to look, it seems,

For something else to keep amused.

 

He saw the tree and did recall

Those joyful times when it displayed

Beneath its branches, Christmas gifts,

But now he looked and was dismayed.

 

He bent down slowly, touched the tree,

More needles fell to ground,

A tear welled in that small boy’s eyes,

It dripped but made no sound.

 

He realized that once it lived

Now it was left to die,

He never did forget that day,

I know, that boy was I.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 (Adapted from a story published  In the school magazine Jan 1950)