The Tree

It watches and waits

Sitting atop a distant hill

I can see it from my front gate

It sits unmoving and still

It's almost bare branches sway gently

Like bony fingers quaking

I stare intently

Watching the branches shaking

The stiff trunk is plain

Its faded bark peeling

The remaining leaves fall like rain

The hard wood unfeeling

The tree has always been there

I think it's not going anywhere