25 long years ago, a man and his family came to the place I call my home,
The man, my grandfather; his family & my family being one.
The house overlooked a barren plot of land, striped naked of greenery,
Dusty winds blew the sandy soil about, in the brazing sun.
My grampa, a man with a green thumb, decided to brighten the landscape,
He went to the nursery, got some seeds, took out his old shovel and got busy.
Slowly but steadily the plants grew, each one rising taller than the other,
But his favourite was the neem tree, right in front of the balcony.
He liked it more than he liked the others, though all he loved,
Maybe it was because the leaves rustled as the faintest of winds blew.
Where we live, the summers are quite hot and hard to bear,
So a gust of wind is welcome when the only other wind is loo.
Now, years gone by, my grampa, frail, the tree still as good as new,
It still stands tall where it was planted such a long time ago.
He walks with a stick, doesn’t know how long he’ll be,
But the neem tree is still there, and will be tomorrow.
In summers, it still provides respite from the cruel heat,
In winters it lets the sunshine, peep through its leaves.
In autumn its leaves provide much needed green relief,
In the spring however, they shed, and naked lies the tree.
I see the squirrels play hide and seek in this tree,
I see the children crowd under it each evening.
I see the workmen rest in its shade in the afternoon,
And I see the joy and happiness, to people that it brings.
It’s been here long enough to know a lot about everything,
That’s all there’s to say about this mighty tree.
There’s so much it has seen and been through,
It’s stories however (sadly), can’t be told by me.