Sitting in the cold bright sunshine
Cooling and crisp wind on my face its reddens and burning
The deep colour red like my luscious lips of mine
That old oak tree of life is dead, you can see that the season is turning
The cold and wet makes the tree fall apart and rot
The deep brown wood has grown into a grey
Undergrowth is made from moisture and the mulch plot
Sat in the mud and water that it has left to lay
Colourful once was with greens and leaves
Filled by fresh flowers and a little sun made for life
Upright and the flowers made it beautiful which the tree grieves
The tree is dry dead so it is falling apart without a touch of a knife
The kids are playing on it and they are creating a mess
A mess in the dirt where it is half decomposed into dust of the dusk
The tree’s structure has been compressed into an formed of destress
With kids kicking until it has a smell of damp air and musk