[in Rhyme Rhupunt: a,a,a,b c,c,c,b]
At water’s edge there danced below,
amid the ripple and the flow,
royal blue and sun aglow—
and ragged clouds in limpid sky.
Standing tall and stately there,
swaying in the languid air,
a mighty oak in quiet prayer—
and not a soul to reason why.
Long ago when earth was young,
and all alive had common tongue,
songs of praise were often sung—
to sacred trees that beckoned all.
But time will always stir the brew;
Men soon forgot the hymns they knew;
came next the ax, its certain hew—
then dread silence, gruesome pall.
Yet Oak survived, of all that were,
whose buried might began to stir—
its dreams for earth none could deter—
for it had promises to keep.
Oak then rent thunderous all the earth,
forged resplendent its rebirth.
accorded thus eternal worth—
serene the tree then welcomed sleep.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013