Part 4 (1/2)

THE THREE OAKS

There are three ancient oaks, That grow near to each other.

They lift their branches High as beckoning With outstretched arms, For some one to come and stand Under the canopy of their leaves.

Once long ago I remember As I lay in the very centre, Between them: A rotten branch suddenly fell Near to me.

I will not go back to those oaks: Their branches are too black for my liking.

AN OAK

h.o.a.r mistletoe Hangs in clumps To the twisted boughs Of this lonely tree.

Beneath its roots I often thought treasure was buried: For the roots had enclosed a circle.

But when I dug beneath them, I could only find great black ants That attacked my hands.

When at night I have the nightmare, I always see the eyes of ants Swarming from a mouldering box of gold.

ANOTHER OAK

Poison ivy crawls at its root, I dare not approach it, It has an air of hate.

One would say a man had been hanged to its branches, It holds them in such a way.

The moon gets tangled in it, A distant steeple seems to bark From its belfry to the sky.

Something that no one ever loved, Is buried here: Some grey shape of deadly hate, Crawls on the back fence just beyond.

Now I remember--once I went Out by night too near this oak, And a red cat suddenly leapt From the dark and clawed my face.

THE OLD BARN

Owls flap in this ancient barn With rotted doors.

Rats squeak in this ancient barn Over the floors.

Owls flap warily every night, Rats' eyes gleam in the cold moonlight.