The Song Of Trees

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The Song Of Trees


They sat here,

back in nineteen seventeen,

beneath my caring arms.

I kept the August sun

from their fevered brows

as piece by piece

they pulled themselves



Their stories made me weep


from sycamore leaves

to the ground.

Such courage

and such sorrow.

But I had no voice

to join their sweet lament.


Others came

and read their words

from tree-pulp paper

forged in war -

and I realised

that one had died -

and then another -

and then another.


Their words remained.

Passed to generations

who would feel their hurt

through ink

and I, through sap,

would not forget

those angry boys

who shaded here a while.


Then, when I died,

my bones were sculptured

Into things of beauty

and at last I had the voice

to share my feelings

at their passing

and ring out their praises

at Craiglockhart.

Craiglockhart Miliotary Hospitalrobert gravessiegfried sassoonsycamoreviolinswilfred owen

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Simon King

Mon 23rd Oct 2017 21:23

Loved this. It created great imagery. Thank you.

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