Winter trees stand staunch and tall,
silver grey fingers stretch upwards
to pattern lace doilies atop the poled stems,
strung across a winter blue sky.
Their leaves cast off in Autumn
with a shimmer of burnt fire, reds and golds
make a crunchy carpet underfoot.
Now, like a line of naked children
flaunting the landscape
they tremble at the cruel winds.
I’d never realised how perfect trees were
till now I see them, unadorned,
each shape accommodating the next
along the horizon,
no eager birds winging in to build,
no boys and girls,
hands clasped around sturdy branches,
climbing, laughing, seeking adventure.
Mute witnesses they stand,
the winter trees
saluting the season.