Bench

 

Bench

 

At the end of the field, there is a hill

At the hill, there is a lonely Turkish oak

Lumpy, filled with a lot of red, tight growth rings

Stands angry and stout
Sometimes a Golden eagle rests still on the highest branch

Or a Peregrin falcon fly by chasing sparrows away

The hill is neither rocky nor a real home of a Turkish oak

Wind couldn’t bring it across the road

Maybe children played with acorns

Or a lonely traveler brought it into the pocket, played, and dropped it

Secretly the tree settled and grew here

It branched out and became a domestic

Under the Turkish oak, there is a heavy wooden bench

In the summer, there is shade, silence, a flower field, and a view

To the steep rocky hills and forest of the Turkish oak across the road.

I pass and look at the bench from a distance

It seems to me, my son is sitting there.