It is old, this grove, standing quiet

In the first light of dawn, a circle

Of trees playing host to rust-colored

Moss, they stoop like wounded giants

Caked with blood, surrounding a silent

Pond that seems to mirror their anguish
Without a ripple of sympathy for twisted
Limb or cracked wooden shield.

It stands alone, this grove, in a field

Of wild timothy with no road leading

There, save the passing of a rabbit or

Fox, leaving contrails behind them in

Tall grasses that are soon snatched away

By an uncertain breeze that knows not if it

Comes or goes, voicing mournful cries

Of abandoned places in far away lands.

These willows that stand here, they

Care not for such things, their roots

A testament to their own origins, they

Weep for where they are now, and mock

That idiot wind, perhaps envious in their

Secret, knotted hearts of the intangible

Pleas that are given no quarter by the

Clouds it gives chase to across those

Endless

Rolling

Fields…

END

“Grove”