it must have creaked and groaned
with its mighty death rattle
toppled by a howling winter gale
as I was lost in the land of dreams.
In the morn the wind was no longer wild
but the silver birch I climbed as a child
lay slumped on the rain-soaked grass.
It narrowly avoided the greenhouse
and will have to stay, I cannot lift it away.
The ghost of a young boy sheds a tear
but the weather does not care.
Yes, the old silver birch fell in the night,
a giant carcass...a most forlorn sight.