High on a hill a bent plum tree, Lies half prone, where it started free.
A lightening bolt or a vagrant board, Bowed it low where the damage scored.
Its neighbours proud, stately and prim, Towered above with branches trim.
Yet a special charm embraces the eye, As hopeful branches is leaves hold high.
When summer has passed its branches will tell, how a child can reach the fruit so well.
Its sturdy bole – a fine seat make, Handy to rest as its fruit we take.
What may have seemed like a mishap grim had risen to bloom with hope from within.
Spreading its beauty and service free, a special delight – like no other tree.
A message to all soft breezes will tell that its sturdy root still nourishes well.
The sun and the rain no favourites show, As hatchlings dance in the evening glow.
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