in what remains of that solemn woodland
an old willow creaks in memory of winters past
her withered leaves fall in the summer
and scarcely return come spring
her branches like the fingers of a bedlam
crooked, twisted and bruised
an empty nest where once a yellow warbler raised her young
now visited by robins, curious and brave
like ancient celts as they looked upon old roman columns
abandened and forgotten, slowly turning back to dust
many trees the willow knew once
but how quick the woodland disappears
she stood for many years, as a daughter of the forest
yet she will die, as a lone ponderer upon the solemn plain
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 4:31 AM UTC
in what remains of that solemn woodland
an old willow creaks in memory of winters past
her withered leaves fall in the summer
and scarcely return come spring
her branches like the fingers of a bedlam
crooked, twisted and bruised
an empty nest where once a yellow warbler raised her young
now visited by robins, curious and brave
like ancient celts as they looked upon old roman columns
abandened and forgotten, slowly turning back to dust
many trees the willow knew once
but how quick the woodland disappears
she stood for many years, as a daughter of the forest
yet she will die, as a lone ponderer upon the solemn plain
