The Tree by the Street (fiction)

The leaves on the tree
they rustle in the air
As the piercing slaps of the wind
brush their tender tips

Some are brown as dryness
encompasses them
Others a reddish green
for they have seen more fruitful years

They are connected to the big man - they call him "bark"
Steadfast he stands, never moving
no matter what he sees

A cyclist whistles past him
as he races to his destination
Others walk nonchalantly on the pavement -
all of them, busy passers by

They've seen murders and births, joys and laughter
Lived to see generations of the Schafters
There's more to this street than a man ever tells
The tree knows it all and alone he reminiscences

The sun falls through its branches
And sheds light on the torn hat that covers the little beggar boy
He leans against the bark and waits
Plate in hand - as passersby drop coins into his dish

The fruits they get ripe and do fall
Some get picked up
others get kicked along
Still others lay squashed where they got trampled
by some tyre or
underneath a burly man's footprint

The world paces on at lightening speed
As cars slide along the tarred black roads
All is movement and mayhem
All except the tree that stands steadfast in its purpose

Flowers fade and flowers fall
A child gazes at the beauty of it all
Everything in its own season
And everything has its own reason

The world rotates
car engines they still
Traffic lights change from amber to green
People pass by - a million at a time
But the leaves of the tree will forever shine

© Slow Chills