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.