Sure,
Some folks adore the sycamore.
They carve love-spoons from its creamy core,
Its helicopter fruits are more
Than passing fun for kids from four
To ninety four.
Straight
And tall with shapely pate;
A duke will plant one on his grand estate.
Beneath its calming crown a poet may create,
Or Buddha-like beneath his Bodhi tree, just contemplate;
Or we may wait,
Wait,
For a storm to abate;
Against its ample trunk greatly and gratefully urinate,
Or like Tolpuddle’s workers congregate
To form a labour syndicate
And seal their fate.
Or,
Like me, you may deplore
The gunge that every spring its florets pour
And every autumn falling leaves galore
On my car’s poor roof, for which I abhor
The sycamore.
Refer to: Trees
Brilliant Chris! I certainly was not sick o’ more after the first verse!
Thanks! I’d like to note that ‘sycamore’ is said to derive from the Greek for fig and mulberry (why??), hence the extremely tenuous connection with the Bhodi tree which was (is?) an actual fig.