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?