The Oak

The Oak There is some wood upon the grate Within its bark are warmth and light Waiting there till it gets late To hold away the cold and night. The wood was once a tall Oak tree That stood beside a old stone wall Its branches stretching high and free A lightening bolt brought down its fall. Branches bare except for snow Forgotten strength no beauty seen Stately oak by storm laid low A shadow of what it must have been. Saws and axes busy sound Breaking up the ruined wood A single acorn on the ground Will grow up where its parent stood. Cut and split then put away Waiting for the time that when Winters cold and shorter day Show its beauty yet again.