A Special Place

The old tree has long been felled, And you need to know the ground To find the last few signs of Sunken family grave mounds. The graveyard is now full And it was thought for the best To find some virgin ground To lay villagers at their rest. For as long as I can remember This was a special place to me, Legs sprawled along the grass Back against the old oak tree That had clawed its way, I thought, To tower miles and miles high. I could look through its branches To see framed pieces of the sky. This was the oak that overhung our roof, Sighed and whispered and chatted away, On and on since ever since I was born, Never silent for very long, night or day As it played and teased And worked the breeze In a chorus with All the other trees; Behind me the work noise from uncle’s forge, Sounds that changed with the time of year, Working blacksmith sounds Normal and reassuring to hear. To my left the grave of my granddad, Dead long before his time Killed by pneumonia Aged just twenty nine. Well before I was born but I hoped he knew it was me there, Knew I helped my dad each year With the graveyard’s care, Scything the grass Carrying it away To make little piles To turn to hay Which dad sold for a few coins Not enough to pay all his work But a little extra, a sort of Seasonally needed perk. We hoed and shimmed the paths To give them a cared for aspect. A gesture from the living To show the dead respect. I only remember sunshine Those many hours I lay there, Sunshine and birdsong And crystal clear air. It was my special place to sit and think Where I was always at peace and ease, Amongst the friendly family shades And my beloved singing talking trees.