There’s a Tree that I see in front of my home
That’s been, forever, there
A 100- plus if you ask me,
It’s a Banyan tree
The family being
The lovely, Mulberry.

We call it “Bargad”
It’s big in size
And, fairly widespread too,
It’s got height and weight
Looks nice with the girth
If you get hit, ‘tis not a matter of mirth.

Right opposite me
Across my gate
This sprawling mass of wooded Green,
Home to monkeys
And to birds
Delightfully rustic, is the Scene.

The leaves move from
The colour Green
To a three- coloured mystery,
The Green is Youth
The Brown Wisdom
And Yellow, the jolly good, old, fellow.

Now, I’ve been through these stages
The same- coloured pages
‘Tis Autumn, not Winter yet,
But, when you get thus far
Something tells you
You better for the Cold, get set.

This tree’s given comfort
A balm of sorts
In Summer and Winter too,
It’s been the Umbrella
For shade and the rain
Bur, let the Sun’s rays through.

So, I got the warmth
Not the burning Sun
No tanning ever required,
It had a million leaves
Never counted them
Enough, no more were ever desired.

It was home to many
Who became friends of mind
Me, minus tail and the wings,
Couldn’t match the monkeys
Monkeying around, nor
The little blue bird that sings.

We ‘d gather each morning
For a  cup of tea
For, the imbiber Me,
While they would have
What in my part of the World
Is called just “mathi”
( please try rhyme with cookie).

Battles would ensue
‘Tween the birds and the bees
But, there were no bees there,
Just different birds
Big and small
All happy and at ease.

They were early-risers
The crack of Dawn types
Though the cocks never came,
Perhaps, they were looking for
Something else
A more exciting game.

They crowed all right
WaIting for the Orb
To rise in splendid majesty,
Till it’s warmth beat down
The feathers of the cock
Till the next morning then was, Goodbye.

I loved the chirping of the birds
Their asking for morsels
More,
I always ensured
There was, always, enough
On the shelves of my home Store.

This morning ritual
Was never to be missed
And yet, I was guilty I know,
Age is a chain
That shackles a bit
Forcing that “ Go Slow”.

As long as we’re together
It will always be
A morning of Camaradarie,
It’s a meeting of hearts
As basic as that
It’s not, a Tea Party.

(The author is a prolific poet who has over 40 poetry books to his credit. He can be reached at ashoksawhny06@gmail.com/ www.ashoksawhny.com)