The Treasure Tree

Young Irene had a piggy bank,

She kept her treasure in it.

She got a trinket, coin or gem - 

She hid it in a minute.

She worried lest her treasure trove 

Be lost, or even stolen,

So in the woods she found a tree:

A yew tree with a hole in. 

She put her treasure in a box,

And hid it in the yew tree.

That way she could be sure to keep

Quite safe her things of beauty.

She went each day to see the tree,

And check how it was doing,

Then went home feeling satisfied,

And heartened by each viewing.

First once a week, then every month,

Her visits grew less frequent.

But still her heart was warmed anew 

By any yew-tree weekend.

The yew became her treasure tree.

In time, as she grew older,

When she felt blue t'was not the box,

It was the tree consoled her.

And so her visits brought her peace,

The yew tree gave her solace,

Unlike the treasures she'd acquired,

Which once just made her jealous.

And when Irene grew old and frail,

The hot sun left her jaded.

And then her yew tree sheltered her,

And kept her cool and shaded.

There came a day (there always does),

When, sat beneath her treasure, 

Old Irene drew her final breath.

Upon her face: pure pleasure.

Two crows sat watching from a branch,

Then hopped inside the yew tree,

And seconds later brought out gifts:

A small girl's things of beauty.

Memory of things to come

There’s a little brown box 

that sits among the debris on my desk.

On its lid, four skinny boys,

in black and white, 

sit on an English beach,

in matching woolly jumpers, 

and plastic sandals.

Inside, like treasure in a chest,

lies a chrome pen drive.

It holds edited highlights

of the four boys lives;

seaside holidays and family parties, 

self-consciously enacted 

for the ancient cine camera,

and captured in silent grainy colour.

But the pen drive has plenty of space:

a blank canvas

for the works of art

that would be their lives.

Those four little boys grew up,

painted their pictures,

lived technicolour, surround sound stories,

wove their threads into a tapestry;

intertwined with the world,

away from the old cine camera.

I thought to fill up the empty megabytes

with images of my own

from down the years.

But then a thought took me:

that space is not really empty - 

it’s full of possibilities;

unnumbered masterpieces,

all conceivable futures,

four boys’ dreams.

Paths have been taken, 

promise fulfilled... potential untapped,

loves found, 

                    loves loved,  

                                        loves lost.

The road we’ve travelled is longer, now,

than the one that lies ahead.

But there’s still room;

memory enough for future pathways,

crossroads, diversions,

on that chrome pen drive,

in a treasure chest box. 

Memory of things to come.