She was not grand As is the Green’s great oak, Nor rare, Her kin dot the land in modest abundance, In her position lay her magic Dozing quiet on the edge of hallowed ground Canopy politely shading the walled path, How many feet passed under her boughs? And how many small hands, under autumn’s dappled sunshine Did joyfully plunder her mahogany treasures? A rite of passage for several generations, Making the journey to and from learning just a little sweeter And now she is gone The hole she leaves greater than the space she took So perhaps, grand she was, after all.