Uprooted by a passing storm,

Like a diving swimmer his limbs stretch out,

Capturing the very moment, in perpetuity,

When he perfected his final plop.

He part-straddles now the Rochdale Canal, in limbo,

As his arms are pinioned by slime and mud.

There was nowhere else for the tree to go,

An original oak escaping the wood,

And someone has lopped his head right off!

This tree deserved a nobler fate.

He was, after all, a force for good,

Sheltering barges for many years,

Soaking up water from seasonal floods.

 Sculptured like a piece of Henry Moore’s work,

Perhaps this tempers any desire for tears.

 

Amidst the bracken, willowherb, and sedge,

A majestic tree, of Nature begot,

Dives, vainly, from the canal bank edge,

As his fine, old body begins to rot!