Dragged forth East out of Wales
land of song and tales even then.
The harp cherished more than the sword.
Oxen strained as his joy drew them on.
This effigy would change so much
healing and mending with its power.
Ancient oak, left to dwell,
kept deep in some unforgotten cwm,
revered still then stolen by
this mendicant friar blinded to his only fate.
What songs and spells it hid within
the silence of its brooding?
Feeling now the time had come
choosing a earnest man of Christ to
make its final play.
What form it had no book tells,
an Great Oxen in my mind
to draw the condemned souls back from hell.
Condemned as Forrest himself
poor fool.
Burned on his pagan effigy, at london's gates
his fate.
And the final victory for the tree.
Darvel Gatheren you might read,
this twisted form spoken now
still makes branches stir on windless days.
And trees smile, and thank the bishops
for the last sacrifice to the old British Gods,
made by the new order.