Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

THE MAGIC TREE

by TIM SANSOM

Her claret leaves bobbed in the breeze so graceful , grave and slow
As whites of light were weakened when they’d bathed her buff, gnarled bark
Her essence and material in one ethereal glow
Epitomised the furthest cry from night time and from dark.
 
An old man sat beneath her spread to pause and to reflect
The afternoon was smiting so her shade was all relief
His years and intuition like a vision were correct
This tree unsown had never grown nor ever shed a leaf.
 
He saw that she was magic and he smelt the recipe
He heard the sliding ages and the rumbling epochs groan
He felt the winds and falling kings who awestruck in their day
Had like him touched her trunk to be made drunk by all she’d known
 
He asked his silent question as he studied through a squint
Her flaked skin and its tarnishing and marks accrued of time
And every underpinning every nuance every hint
Of what came with her telepathic answer was sublime

Added: 16.12.2010

Judges' comments on this poem

05.05.2011

on second reading the meanings swung clear

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