Andrew Durbin

The Dead Tree

There is an old tree that sits bare on the lane.

It has always been dead, which no one can explain.

Its branches have never born petals nor fruit,

For poison has spread from its limbs to its root.

Its bark is as black as a night with no moon.

Around it a fungus has built a cocoon.

The tree never dies, yet seems slowly to grow.

And why does it do this? Not one seems to know.

For hundreds of years, this old timber has stood

From where it was taken from out of the wood.

The people who brought it have all up and died.

You ask to remove it? So many have tried.

The tree is now part of the soil and land.

It cannot be removed by a mere mortal’s hand.

For all those who touch it will suffer a fate

That is far worse than dying or torture or hate.

They once tried to remove it by using an ax.

The next day, they woke with deep cuts on their backs.

Another once tried to just burn down the tree.

His eyes disappeared, and he could no more see.

So if you should see this old tree in the square,

I beg of you, please, take my words and beware.

Do not touch the tree, nor its root in the mud,

For the tree always hungers, and feeds upon blood.