A website dedicated to the memory of Karl Yeomans


There's a place far away where the Miggy tree grows;
Where small yellow ducks ride white speckled does.
And the frogs of the marsh, with their top hat and tails,
Play croquet and quoits with the voles of the vales.

There's been talk in these parts, for an awfully long while,
That this splendid old tree is able to smile.
At dawn. At dusk. When the stars greet the moon,
The Miggy Tree's grin will faithfully bloom.

So gen'rous of heart, of flowers and fruit,
The Miggy Tree's gifts make wealthy men mute.
The passing of years has naught shown sign
of quelling this flair, that ensures all feel fine.

Sat on a hill, of daisies and moss,
Where fairies rub rubies; revamping their gloss.
So long has she grown, so high does she soar,
Her branches, her leaves of her they adore.

A painter with paints went to her one day.
Set up his easel. Bid her G'day.
He swished and he dabbed in 'is Impressionist's way,
Modelling his art on that French bloke Monet.

Immortal or not, she's a marvellous tree,
Always most loved, by all will she be.
As a seed from the warmth of this plant's woody tum,
I thank God and the Stars for my Miggy Tree mum.

(Karl Yeomans, 20th July 1996).