Not my family tree

When the mother tree died Beech chose me.
Me, a sullen sapling, she force fed with sugar solution.

She, self-appointed forest queen, content in her cathedral
of branches, always well dressed in her seasonal attire.

She began to bore me with her constant root-chatting
her fungal fingers soon got beneath my bark

screaming at my fragile roots should I take an extra drink
or engage in leaf dropping.

I must escape this bullying dominance, I long for the freedom
of the wind-blown Willow.

I need to own my own pain.