Not fearing life, or death,
No sins he need confess,
Tall and proud he stands,
No medals on his chest,
Withered gnarled and old,
Seen many summers hot,
And many winters cold,
With a groan and sigh,
It’s last deep breath it gives,
Of cruel murder falls to die,
Empty desolate the shady spot,
A tree there now is not,
No canopy of green,
Empty is the air of song,
Of robin, wren, or cuckoos call,
The hum of bees, the play of squirrels,
But there a distant whirl,
A shout of timber do I hear,
And a noise that tears my heart,
Alive they’re cutting me apart,
Strewn a massacre of friends,
Corpses every where, these fiends,
And no one there to place a cross,
Though heights of timbers there did toss,
Not one with loving hands erected,
Or painted white to be detected,
A prayer might invite,
For a soul there once it stood,
Not just a piece of wood,
What might the prayer say that read?
I gave it all I had, but now I’m dead,
In summer shade, in winter heat,
The living air you breathe,
My bark for lover’s hearts to please,
The perches for the birds of song,
And places for their nests,
And other creatures guests,
Forgive I ask, did ever now that you are old,
In thanks, around my walking stick, your hands in prayer fold?©22/02/2013
Share
Print
Save
Follow
With respect,
Carol Phelan Aebby
All we have to do, is like you, to finally see.
Man know so much yet so little...
Amen
Regis
Ron
budd