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| Simon BB |
THE OAK
The tree is alive.
So alive I check
whether I’m being followed.
I knock on the trunk.
The sound goes in.
Something absorbs it.
It does not come out.
The bark shifts.
It’s rearranging.
The tree is deciding
which face to show me.
Underground, it’s busy.
It drags its roots through old bones,
Above, its branches twitch
thought there is no wind.
I seek acknowledgment.
That’s why I carve a heart into its side.
And the sap beads up, thick and amber.
It’s like an eye trying to open.
Try as I might to add my initials,
the tree rewrites them
into something it prefers.
Something older.
From long before my time.
And the canopy reaches for the sun.
Its devotion is almost predatory.
Why not?
Isn’t worship just hunger in disguise?
No teenage theatrics,
no need to be seen.
The oak is just a tall, patient body
reaching for the light.
The light makes for a good meal.
The tree plans to swallow it whole.
© John Grey
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| John Grey |
