The rowan tree
So old, you cannot see the summer,
cannot bear the sun
or hear the other trees
whisper ever so politely:
is it death;
is it death
or only sleeping?
So old, the colours of this autumn
fall blindly on the waiting green.
The whitening spiders whisper;
in their webs the spiders shiver:
is it death;
is it death
or only sleeping?
So old now, winter seems the only answer;
the dying and the dead,
the tireless white of bones
and all that lived so easily forgotten.
Is it death;
is it death
or only sleeping?
The maypole knows no other season.
The children sing and dance
and later on their parents will forget
all foolish dignity.
Is it time yet;
is it time?
Yes, it is time.
The rowan tree was only sleeping.