My palms rest
Upon the blackened trunk
Of a melancholy hawthorn
It's choked wood crumbling
Into dust
Falling between my fingers
I rest the side of my face
My good ear listening
For the tree's whispered secrets...
Through the tunnels of my ear
The plucking of a lute...
The kind voice of a lone minstrel....
Is echoed in every
Corner of my mind
Promising eternal memory
The minstrel sits under a tree
The same tree whose burned
Breast stands against my face
Only a thousand years in the past
When the hawthorns skin
Was a gold brown tan
Fresh and beautiful
When pink and white blossoms
Grew amongst its green leaves
Fresh and beautiful
When the young hawthorn's
Memory was still young
Fresh and beautiful....
The old minstrel
sat with his gnarled back
Against the hawthorn's body
Willow wood lute in hand
Face lined with
Twelve thousand wrinkles
White beard long and weathered
Old eyes conversing
With the overhanging branches
The old minstrel plucks the
Gut strings of his lute
As if plucking kisses
From a **** lover...
The lute
Being the minstrel's
Only companion
So many years....
Returning from the hawthorn's
Memory of the past
It drew tears from
My closed eyes
I kiss the burned
Body of the old tree...
Tasting ashes on my wet lips
I embrace the tree
All my love pouring through
This embrace
As if we were making love
Under the stormy
Smoky sky
With the ending sighs
Of my lungs
The hawthorn's
Last flow of water
The remaining embers
Burning black and blood red
Engulf both our bodies
Our wailing voices
Echoing for days....
All that is left
Two piles
Of gray ashes
One to keep the other company
In this melancholy
World....