The Pine Tree

It was planted for him, the young man who bled and died on the battlefield of World War I. It was small, only young like the town itself. Planted near the crossroads, the centre of town. Its scrawny limbs point at the busy pub, the post-office and the church. The townspeople gathered and shared their news. And the memory remained. And the dust from the quarry, blew and fell, like snowflakes in the winter. Settling on the pine tree. -Billy Allen