A Tapestry of Trees

The privvet, neat and disciplined, a verdant garden wall, And box, enduring, sculpted close, lest they grow strong and tall. The laurel, glossy, ever green, a barrier it makes, Though left to climb, a stately tree, its leafy journey takes. And by the coast, a warmer dream, the date palm stands so high, An exotic punctuation mark beneath the English sky. Then come the skilled arborists, with knowing hand and eye, Who nurture these green focal points, where beauty loves to lie. They pollard willow's willing limbs, for future growth anew, And coppice hazel's many stems, where sunlight filters through. A rhythm old, a partnership, between the human hand, And nature's boundless energy, across this fertile land. The sycamore, a naturalised guest, with leaves of ample size, Its winged seeds twirling earthward, beneath the autumn skies. The cedar, proud and fragrant, from distant mountains brought, A specimen of grandeur, in landscapes finely wrought. The spruce, with needles sharp and keen, a scent of northern air, A structured, conical presence, beyond compare. The horse chestnut, in springtime bloom, with candles white and grand, Then conkers fall in autumn, across the eager hand. And fig trees, in sheltered nooks, where warmth can gently stay, Their tender leaves and luscious fruit, a Mediterranean way. A tapestry of timber, both native and from far, Each playing out its destined role, beneath a guiding star. A testament to beauty sought, to boundaries defined, And wilder hearts that yearn to grow, untroubled and unconfined.