The oak tree stood for a thousand years
Its aged trunk knarled and twisted
Its branches creak and groan
As a hurricane breeze bends and twists it.
Once a thriving forest, alas no more
Ravaged, devastated, shot down by the
woodcutter’s saw.
Way off in the distance a church bell
silently sings
Night comes creeping in the sky turns
black as coal.
Neath an umbrella of rain-whipped
branches
The oak tree bares its soul.
Once an enchanted forest, oak trees
stood proud and tall
Empty, now forsaken, the old oak was
the last to fall.

Geoff Clay, Bishop Auckland