Dead Trees

• Ben Langridge, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2014

Up on a hill, dead and alone
An old tree stands, all on its own

Its skin pale, in permanent fright
An ancient being, all in white

Its arms end at bony fingers
An eerie sense of death lingers

Its gaping mouths speak in creaks and groans
Spaces only owls now own

Sap now dried, like blood turned to dust
This tree will burn, like all wood must