Feb 17
The old oak told many stories.
Tales of princesses and dragons,
Wars and soldiers,
Heroes and sinners.
And the little boy listened, simply because he could.
Jasper wasn't sure how the oak gathered such spectacular stories,
Nor did he know why it chose to whisper them to him,
In the security of silent nights.
He spoke in a grisly voice, of distant territories.
Cringed at the thought of automobiles; smiled at wagons.
When he reminisced of his brothers, standing shoulder to shoulder,
His robust, ancient boughs shivered.
Jasper supposed that before his legs were planted where they stood,
The oak would have roamed countrysides and 50 storeys.
He didn't query when his etched face turned grim,
Or when the bark covered his face from the light.
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Poetry For The Lost People
Poetry365 observations and comments about society, life and love throughout 2022. Come with me on my journey day by day, as I write what I've always wanted to say. There is no method or planning, just thoughts and perceptions about the way of the world. A...
