THE OLD OAK
In silk brocades, and wigs and breeches,
people gathered for the planting,
bygone glories celebrated,
long forgotten in history’s mist.
And in maturity it stood
anchored in the rolling acreage,
spreading shadow’s dappled sheet
beneath its wide and noble form.
Weary now, its boughs descending,
wooden props provide support.
Its tree rings shall define its age
which only death discloses.
Michael Edwards © April 2015