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Succulent, ready to be twisted off, |
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The leaves are warm and the stones are hot, |
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The distant houses seem to melt with the vast open glowing air, |
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The almost steaming ragged wood of the oak trunks and the sweating walk, |
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The ease of the wagging boughs, |
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Layering wavering shadows. |
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A story tells me that there is a couple there, |
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Buried 'neath the twisted roots, |
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Older than the tree itself, older than the ruined farm, |
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They 1ived there in the wooden days, |
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When hands were tougher than a plough, |
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And will was stronger than the rafters of a house, |
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I also heard their dog is there, |
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Their bones are tangled in that tree, |
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Side by side and holding hands, |
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And that's the reason why that tree is beautiful. |
