A Concrete Poem

Many moons ago, when I was at college, my English lecturer told us that a concrete poem took the shape of its subject, and we all had to try to make one up. This was my effort.

The Tree at the Top of the Hill

I remember the days
when I climbed up your hill,
and rested awhile in your shade,
gazing out on the slopes to the stream and the mill
at the birds on the wing and the deer in the glade.
Now my eyes must look out on the flat city streets
where the park has its trees but the trains rush on by.
While there’s shade, there’s no peace on those seats
with the roar of the traffic nearby.
But I remember those days
of climbing
and resting
and gazing
and seeing
the living
of wild things
not sad things
but glad things.
With everywhere still,
From the tree at the top of the hill.