30 JULY 1932, Page 10

Poetry

The Wych-elm

IN weariness of heart, Bitter with false labour, I put the world apart And seek an old neighbour.

A century or more He has mused and murmured Over my door Of what the winds rumoured.

I am never tired Of his leaf-lippings, Garrulous, absurd In his bough-whippings.

He will rub his branches Like a musing fly, Though his great haunches Are three cottages high.

He will squeak in the night Like a foraging mouse, And tremble with fright Above the house.

He will affront the moon With antics of folly, And next day at noon Sham green melancholy.

As I say to the woman Who shares my cottage, " The tree's almost human In its whimsical dotage ! "

RICHARD CHURCH.