Olden Sire

by

Dwayne Pagnotto

Oak knarled
The Grandfather tree
Stands dim and foreboding
Raising tiny saplings at his base
His precious ones.

They stretch their branches towards him
With leaves that clasp at his trunk.
They seem to be pleading for something they cannot articulate

But he knows.

Old moss bearing friend of the mountains
The only survivor of the Elder Wars.

He holds stories within his strong knotted frame
Ancient writings are etched on his bark.

Proud he is
And ever so wise.

He whispers
And all the lesser woods sway
In the wind of his breath.

Curious forest wanderings
Now peer out
From holes in the ground
Trees
And twiggy breaks in the shrubbery.

They come on now timidly
With slow hesitant movements.

Settling upon his thick knobby roots
Listening attentively
With perked up ears
And wide wondering eyes.

A flock of fluttering birds descend
And perch in his branches
Stilling their song
Till the story ends.

The small wooded grove suddenly darkens
As an echo of thunder
Rolls off in the distance.

He speaks

And his voice begins as a slow, long deep rumble
Making its way up
From the earth's core.

He tells of long forgotten tales
As tho they had happened just yesterday.

And tho we listen hard
His voice we cannot percieve

For we are but humans
And he is a tree.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Untitled
by: Missaoui Nče Barkati Om El Khir
from: Hammam-Lif, Tunisia

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