In the great storm the old ash tree
That you had so admired when you bought this house
Fifty years ago, blew down.
It must have been forty feet and two hundred years old.
We remembered your love of it
As it lay prostrate across the garden
And suddenly a great view appeared
In the hills beyond, towards the sunset.

Bill, the farmer at Temple Mill, cut it up
Whose grandma had been born in our house.
And played beneath its shade.
Now all that is left
Is a massive stump
And a log table in the orchard

And we remember you as we sit by the fire
Warm in its embrace.

Oswyn Murray, February 2024