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.
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