Tree

Sometimes it’s nice to be up before the world.
Sitting at the back door till the daylight returns.
Rain falling softly.
Jason Isbell playing.
Cup of tea in hand.

The thing that always struck me about town, compared to the city,
is a different kind of quiet.
I swear my voice can travel for miles in this town.
Like I can hear folk from over in the park,
or across town.

The city’s different.
I love them both,
but this is where I chose.
This is home.

Even that old tree out back,
the one I don’t want to chop down,
but keeps growing toward the wires.
Every summer I’m out there pruning like a fool.

I’m like a tree barber.

Putting a cloth round it to gather the branches.
Asking it, “How’s the family?”
“Any tips on the horses today?”

Chop it down they say
and get the space.

Nah.

I’m sitting in its shade here,
sipping on a drink.

Some things are worth the effort.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon