The Tree
It stood grand with a million leaves,
In all its finery.
Every one reaching for the sun
And contributing
To the majesty of its girth.
Each leaf a thing of beauty;
Together standing tall,
With all the might
Of a wondrous
Enterprise.
Through many centuries
The tree has stood
Draped in its coat
Of many colours,
Unshakeable.
Then the cruel wind blew
Rat-a-tat rat-a-tat rat-a-tat
And the magnificent leaves
Were blown asunder
To rot in the soil.
Opher – 10.11.2018
I wrote this in anticipation of Rembrance Day.
I had this image of a nation being a mighty tree and the leaves being its people.
The cruel wind was the machine guns that so easily blew them away.
All that potential, all that grandeur, left to rot in the ground.
So sad, so unnecessary, so tragic, so thoughtless, so meaningless, so indescribably cruel.
What is this persistent ritual of war all about? Why are we forced to repeat it so often?
So many leaves fall. So many autumns. And endless cycle of young death.
❤️
Thanks Jennie.
You’re welcome.
Fine tribute, Opher, the imagery recalling war poets like Owen but also Shelley – Ode to the West Wind where leaves symbolise people – here are the opening lines:
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes …
Thank you Dave. Owen and Shelley – Wow!!