It was a mere tease ‘till morning,
the August sun easing an awe
over a yawing sky
in the quotidian overture of
another dawn.
I was of the moment, ankle-deep, in a
mantle of pale greyish mist
imbued with a subtle hint of blue.
Chilled from the cool night
it lay silent and still;
not a breeze sought
the morning’s pleasure.
As if born of the mist,
soaring proud, an ancient
and mighty fellow:
a grand old oak tree.
An overpowering gent,
nobly adorned
in summer’s regalia.
There was a bird singing -
a warbler perhaps -
somewhere among the fellow’s branches.
I tried to find the chanteuse
but without luck.
She rendered forth winsomely
albeit with a tint of sorrow,
as if she were still half asleep;
the morning yet in placid light.
The lowest bough of the tree
was weighty and sound;
a tough and serious limb.
It reached out near horizontal
to the ground and like an elbow,
bent upwards displaying
ageing strength.
There was an old rope
lashed around it,
rather thick
yet frayed weak.
Hanging from the rope
was a mouldering black slave
dressed in worn out rags
and early morning dew.