By Mike Brosnan
The Rody Tree
She sits astride the garden.
Remembering the glory of her Himalayan past.
New leaves, reach for the sky above.
Drooping below, still exuding charm.
Leaves like longboats, the stringers are her veins.
Bereft of flowers, recently blown.
Ready to breed her seeds.
To spread once more, beyond her Himalayan home.
She leaves me homesick for those white peaks
While squatting meekly on our dusty plains.ll
This once proud mountain mistress.
Sadly brought to heel in a foreign land.