Uncle Lawrence
Had the college plant
A hundred thirty-eight trees
When he began his job
Spindly little things
The mayor called them
Vulnerable yet full of promise
Perhaps for a philosopher
A seedling tree is the best answer
For human frailty
And the limits of our perfection.
Today those small signs of hope
Have grown to more than
One thousand strong
More than even he envisaged
Many of us have flourished
Also in unexpected ways
Watching from the window
He is old and frail
A spindly little thing himself
Folding in upon the promise
And yet he still commands respect
As he implores
For the trees – and all our dreams
Keep them growing
And replace them as they die.
Penguin Poems 