Since the Middle Ages

it has stood there and

morphed from an acorn

into majesty. It has shaded

many lovers beneath its leafy

boughs and listened to the

sounds of lowing cows and

perhaps a rowdy tiff was

overheard, or a plot to topple

leaders of the day. The Oak

wouldn’t spill the beans about

a thing, nor in fact anything

at all, but lets you stand there

taking in the thrall of it, and

the meadow sweets nearby

among the gentle hum of bees

That’s not to say it doesn’t fret at

levels we don’t yet understand or

worry at the storms which may

blow away a branch or sturdy bough

and leave thereafter just a scar to

mar its rustic countenance though

inwardly a part of it will faze about

the loss, during ensuing days, yet

not reveal within the silence

that it later bears in resin tears.

Perhaps one day a Homo-sapien

will be cognisant of it all and sweep

the silent shroud of it away - because

in yester times – an noble monarch

had been crowned beneath a tree

exactly of the type of which I speak,

pressing his cheek side kiss against it

and bowing in deferent awe while

parishioners of the poor looked on




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Sat 2nd Nov 2019 20:30

Over a thousand years old apparently, and don't the squirrels know it. 😏

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