Trees are the best plants of all. In their variety, their beauty, their practical and life-saving contributions to every other thing on the planet. I grew up spending long summer days roaming around in the woods, often with a book. I am a Dendrophile too (a person who loves trees, forests).

Dead trees: battered trunks, broken branches, fallen logs, scattered limbs…in some ways more fascinating in their stark jagged shapes…almost threatening…prickly sticks and twigs all underfoot.

The fallen tree lies still
Amongst the hush of autumn morn,
And dwells within a weeded tomb
Upon an amber bed,
The silence stirred from slumber
Crunching leaves beneath my feet,
When once they flickered in the breeze
They now lay cold and dead.

The fallen tree lies still
Amongst the nettles that remain,
And wrapped within an ivy shawl
That’s dampened by the dew,
It winds around its brittle trunk
And grips its winkled bark,
Its leaves are shining in the sun
That’s slowly breaking through.

The fallen tree lies still
Amongst the mass of broken twigs,
As beams descend through branches bare
In sadness it does dwell,
To light the wilting bracken
On the long and winding path,
That gently waves as I do pass
And bids a last farewell.

The Fallen Tree (Andrew Blakemore/poemhunter.com)