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The Leaf
The frosty morn was sullen...
My breath lay frigid to the air.
I walked a darkened wintry trail
To enhance this stark affair.
I sat upon a wooded bench
To give aid to my relief...
Beneath a tree... in winter's grip
That bore a single leaf.
How brave to mock the nature
Of a flagitious winter at its height.
This tree was made of sterner stuff...
I was enthralled by such a sight.
This majestic oak would not submit...
It would not lay stripped and bare
And despite a wintry ill-intent...
It gleaned the morning air.
Each day I'd pass that gallant tree
With its cherished leaf to see.
If it could last through winter's wrath...
There yet was hope for me.
But winter shan't be trifled with
And the oak would bear the cost.
When another day... I walked that way...
The treasured leaf was lost.
I sat again... the wooded bench
As cold whipped me to the bone.
The leaf had died a martyr's death...
Now I was all alone.
The End
Copyright ©
David Mchattie
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