Sparkatale

Poplar

 

O lonely poplar tree

Upon that hill beyond

The fields of wheat,

That sways with every breeze,

The northern winter storms assail

And summer sun brings thirst

To roots that sink not deep enough

Beneath those acid soils.

 

Sometimes, a bird may fly

From somewhere out beyond the mountains

Far beyond the distant haze that veils them

And make its nest high up in your frail branches,

Singing songs of brighter times,

And yet you shake and toss

And so dislodge your sole companion,

Your lonely anger rings throughout

The fertile plains below your little bailey.

 

Down below you lie the nests of birds

Long flown away, as one by one

You shook those that took root upon your branches,

And every one that dared to love you fell,

Upon a bleeding wing to fly away.

 

The air is now so still as summer comes,

And through the glorious blue one blackbird flies

Some distance out, just close enough to see you,

It called your branches home once,

And it cries on landing in the blowing wheat,

For once it loved you and you shook it,

Rage engendered hurt and love then vanished in the night,

And only pity then was left.

 

How jealously you guard your loneliness,

O poplar tree upon a distant hill,

And rage as none are left to love you,

Gazing at the mountains where you long to thrive,

As with the breeze you never stop to sway.

 

You long to wear those broken nests below you,

A crown befitting such a lonely monarch,

A trophy of the victories you claim,

Born out of hate and buried loneliness,

And pain you dealt to live yours out in others,

But still alone you stand upon that hill,

A king without a kingdom,

Within an empty land.

 

7/3/19