Silver Birch

There's a beech tree nearby I feel is mine
Though sovereign in its pomp and power;
Some trees have magnificence, they are fine
Palaces of dream, whose seasons inspire.
We are not such trees which fill all with awe,
We have different grace, a slighter mode,
A sparse copse of silver birch, blown and raw,
Half-anonymous by an urban road.
But through successive years we are as one,
Our moonstruck trunks are neighbours, leaves entwine,
We share the winter winds, the summer sun,
And our roots grow deep as our hearts combine.
Thank you then, for what you have given free
In your faithful sojourn here, next to me.

James Nash