I stand here for a century, without moving but never still. I am conspirator, collaborator, confidant and companion. They hang from my limbs; some on a swing and others at the end of their rope. Spilled guts nourish me. Their words, caught in the web of my branches, silenced by the susurrus of my leaves. Their blood seeps into my roots feeding my subterranean veins. The children who hide and those who are hidden, some come just to visit while others are permanent guests. My scars are deep; the bullet hole, the brazier burn and the heart etched after a moment of passion long forgotten. The winter bodies buried beneath my boughs secretly sustain my summer canopy.