You could say the tree is standing still
And dead quiet, brough indoors alone.
For an hour the cat waited for it to move.
His murderous face is off guard now.
The cat is a scrounger from the farm.
They do not feed him. He has to hunt.
`That's what they'm for.'
Tonight we work at the tree like dress makers,
In the breeze of its faint healthy smell.
Light will be rounded up and festooned over it.
That's what it's for.
It shall not be burnt.
At Epiphany we will try re-planting it.
It may go yellow while we still hope
And while the spring goes green.
Perhaps it will look down on the thatch yet.
Sent to me by Carole and Donna