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He planted trees at every place he owned,
But never stayed the years to watch them grow.
It was, he hoped, a pleasure but postponed –
Kept for the future. Many years ago,
He planted the first tree – he didn’t know
That it would be a gypsy life he’d lead;
He’d put down roots, but then up stakes and go.
A planted seedling, or sometimes a seed,
He’d leave with one last water, one last feed,
And hope that with some luck it would survive;
Be not mistaken for a struggling weed.
Some of those trees by a clear pool now thrive.
They cast their shadows on a verdant glade,
Where rest the weary, thankful for the shade.

– D.N. O’Brien

{Photo – D.N. O’Brien}