The Treasure Tree

Young Irene had a piggy bank,

She kept her treasure in it.

She got a trinket, coin or gem - 

She hid it in a minute.

She worried lest her treasure trove 

Be lost, or even stolen,

So in the woods she found a tree:

A Yew tree with a hole in. 

She put her treasure in a box,

And hid it in the Yew tree.

That way she could be sure to keep

Quite safe her things of beauty.

She went each day to see the tree,

And check how it was doing.

And went home feeling satisfied;

Much heartened by each viewing.

First once a week, then every month,

Her visits grew less frequent.

But still her heart was warmed anew 

By any Yew-tree weekend.

The Yew became her treasure tree.

In time, as she grew older,

When she felt blue t'was not the box,

It was the tree consoled her.

And so her visits brought her peace,

The Yew tree gave her solace,

Unlike the treasures she'd acquired,

Which once just made her jealous.

And when Irene grew old and frail,

The hot sun left her jaded.

And then her Yew tree sheltered her,

And kept her cool and shaded.

There came a day (there always does),

When, sat beneath her treasure, 

Old Irene drew her final breath.

Upon her face: pure pleasure.

Two crows sat watching from a branch,

Then hopped inside the Yew tree,

And seconds later brought out gifts:

A small girl's things of beauty.