Image courtesy of 123rf (modified)
Diamonds dazzle Lord Nelson’s hat,
that vintage oak wind-sculpted on the hill.
Light-pierced from a bold, all-seeing sun,
it nobly ponders summer's embers.
Bronzed acorns slip their leather cups,
reverberant upon the ground and proud
their forebears made those 'wooden walls'
on crescent tides that drove invaders back.
Sheep browse a hoof-worn treadmill,
eschewing thorn and thistle where random seed
may take no root, no quarter gained by rising
verdure in the blazing eve of history's days.
Wind burns its timeless song into the soul,
clouds flee to brood and congregate elsewhere,
earth braces for a remnant harvest home.
Another spring, another life, another year...
But Michaelmas is bright with angel mist,
the ether wired with energies of beating wings.
The blinding circle inches westward, a whirling
cursor poised to link to otherworldly scenes...
The tree in winter which was the poem's inspiration