Song to the Beech
by Phoebe Anthus
You wove your branches,
Netted in the frosty air,
Over the weary weathered stones,
Whose hard selves boast but weakness
To the steel of this new age,
Weird as old mythology
Yet servile to its nerve.
The west wind’s voice came soft but woke you not,
For you have closed your eyes
To the folly of man that oozing, stains our skin.
What is man’s tomorrows, all forlorn?
Here on your love we called,
But disapproved your eyes
And shunned the wisdom
That you gleaned of years.
Oh Beech, my Beech, with you lies the shadow of light,
And timeless tales of truth reach from your song.
But through the distance howls the horn of man
While Britain’s long lost honor
Cowers in its crypt and men with beards aflame
Vex sore the heart of God.
Soon from the cup
Breaks the fountain of woes.
When up to the rim the water swirls,
Only a drop till over it goes.
One more drop and darkness overflows.
Phoebe Anthus is a stubborn artist with her head not so far into the clouds that she can not notice the solid, sensible things as well.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy