The Writers' Circle

The fig tree was decorated from bottom to top with globes,
That hung very proudly, like a bat on tree,
Like washing on a line,
Like wings on a bee.

The leaves of the tree were as green as a bunch of unripe, fresh berries,
and as rough as an elephants skin,
as strong as a hard brick wall,
and as detailed as a fishes fin.

It had a jagged shield,
it was coffee brown and it enclosed,
the whole of the tree completely, it looked like a abandoned shop, but it was always strangely closed,.

the tree itself was deserted, standing very tall,
at the edge of our garden,
waiting for a time,
when a friend would call.