Poem, Poetry

M. E. Muir

There’s a Tree on my Terrace

My shrub pretends to be a tree
called grandly stagshorn sumac,
glowers behind his fingered leaves
offers his flimsy scrap of shade.

My terrace asked me for a proper tree;
this is my best, I cherish every inch,
spray him with cans of miracle-feed,
and wait through summer till a glint of red

marks on his fifteen leaflets autumn’s touch.
Sad when they drop, I press them close,
a memory in case I fail his needs.

I long to lie below his gift of green,
cherish at last his trunk of velvet bark,
let terrace swop the blue umbrella screen
for my almost proper tree.

M. E. Muir is a Scot now living in London, former teacher and business consultant, whose work has recently been published in eg Dawntreader, Morphrog, The London Grip, Ink Sweat & Tears, Porridge, and of course in the Poetry Village, with a first collection  EX SITU just out from Dempsey & Windle.

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