and there
shall be a call
of the tormented
gathered as one
where bells peal
haunted
by the withered will
of a yew tree's shawl
summoning under
its protective veil
left from winter's
warning tale
to those whose
summers never
fail
and those who left
their clock to rust
yet trust that strike
though dull as dust
eleventh hour at
midnight past
too late they fast
turn round their heart
to wind it back
and grind the beat
imparted by its
creaking sticks
which speak of stumps
low cut to fit
that fate below
the mighty oaks
who may in pride
loud beckon youth
to climb great thrills
yet use no rope
though soon a meeker
whisper rose
to shake them down
to the ground of woes