YOUR POEMS Upland Sentinel

High on the windswept lonely moor Enduring the rugged test of time, There stands the sentinel, standing still

Against the unbroken winter chill, Withered, yet still within its prime.

By barren waving swathes of tufts No carpet soft is spread below To encourage or nurture seeking shoot

To form an immovable solid root To defy the barbs of wind-blown snow.

The upward-slanting rocks around Bear witness to saplings awesome power;

Were not they forced to yield their way?

For semi-recumbent now they lay Cast aside by the infant leafy tower.

Inclined by the never forgiving storms

The quivering topmast points the way

Of prevailing winds the seasons bring;

Yet still the uplands tree is King But some day will succumb to age decay.

Beneath the boughs when as a child In glorious summers I sought its shade,

It offered protection from the sun When the course of boyhood games was run

And it shared in the secret plans I made.

It spans the years of human time; It charts the progress of my days; As pilgrim to the lonesome moor I’m powerless to its fateful lure, ’Tis perfection which upon I gaze.

And now as I am growing old The lonely tree grows on apace; My wish, these tired old bones shall lay Beneath its shade come Judgement Day

In this glorious final resting place.

My lasting presence shall it mark ’Till cometh nature’s arboured knell When even a tree of ancient years Crumbles and finally disappears, My once proud upland sentinel.

Ian C Gray Wollaton Park