Graham Ovenden

The Great Beech

He stands with girt girth
that grasping grudging earth
bears greener hope.
Whose sightless root-bones press, slope
outwards: wrest' so there to knot
in air as gnarled hands grasp and grope.

A bark tight tempered
to each tapered tip:
though stark, light
slivers play his belly … flit
their dapple dream through leaves cool
sheen, trip as the winds lay whip …

and echo, fling
a haunting hymn from
throats that wing the sky.
Sing on your song
of birth, versed to the great beech sigh.

For decades past
there's love carved bold:
man's youthful task,
each wish he'll hold
and care our precious hurt …

While summers fleet, who'll shirk their heat
but winter: all's cut cold!