The old man
Rocks, groaning in the wind
Six hundred winters
Standing tall
Strong
Impassive
In the dark
Of deep December
A bough tears asunder
Slowly splitting, screaming
This ancient tree
Breaks in half
When morning comes
The wind, the voices gone
A sad and broken life
Stands
Alone
I stare, transfixed
Witches, spirits, hocus pocus
Rumours around this tree
All my life
There though for all to see
A face and skulls
Of poor, unfortunate souls
Who like me
Had stood before
A broken Sweet Chestnut
The night after
An ancient bough breaks
