A hundred withered autumnal tears; br a hundred pining springs, br without a breath for the hopes and fears br that come to you and me. br It must have stood for a hundred years, br the stoic chestnut tree, br br a hundred summer’s drunken cheers br inside the wintered rings. br After it was felled and free br from wooden reason, br by men with stoic bills to pay br and relatives with more br (all was released in half a day br spent with an axe and saw) br br it went four ways, the chestnut tree - br one for every season. br The second was to Mickey Tighe, br who made us lakeside benches, br my father lay in all his grace br within the walls defined. br br The first was to the carver’s place br where coffins are designed; br they sit there still, before the sky, br and tideless water clenches. br The fourth my brother planned to turn br into a simple clock; br but I and Genna split a load br and the rayeburn could be fed. br br The third lot sat beside the road br ‘til winter reared its head, br maybe from lost chimes we’ll learn br that Charon does not dock. br More and more, these broken wintry days, br people say I look just like my father. br Some nights I scorn the rayeburn’s warmth and flee; br the moon above ignores what time delays, br and, sitting by the lake, I wish I’d rather br know what felled that stoic chestnut tree.