He touched the same place

He touched the same place

On the scarred old Oak

Whenever he passed.

Did it ever bring him luck?

How would he know?

He had grown taller,

Straighter,

With every passing year

Much as the trees grow

More beautiful

With the changing of the season.

Even winter has its moment

Of ghostly whiteness

The dust of snow

Brushed over leafless branches,

As fine a sight as Christmas.

May is just as glorious

It sprays bright blooms and

Blossom everywhere.

There is sublime majesty

To autumn

A wildness to its play

Spinning dry leaves

Into the air

A sprightly dance

As fine as any repertoire

Every performance

As much a preview as a final

Sacred act.

The scent of Juniper

Is overpowering

He has never been a fan of Gin

It wasn’t known as mother’s ruin

For nothing

Drunk instead of filthy water

To ward off Cholera

So his Grandma said

Her old house rose

Out of the ground before him

A perfect respite

He was home

To a hot toddy

Steamed pudding

And a warming hearth

Safe and sound

Once more.