My Old Elm
Above my head
The tall wych elm
Sheds its little packets of seed.
Carefully packaged one-by-one in a gentle transparent sheath.
Down they come
By the thousand
Blown by the wind of June.
Why such ridiculous abundance?
Is it simply a generous
And boastful affluence?
Does it know something that I do not?
Is it a sign of fearfulness for what maybe to come?
Should I too cease numbering my grandchildren
With such pride?
And maybe substitute anxiety in its stead?