The Old Oak

An oak tree standing proud.

Alone, timeless and full of life as the sun shines.

My roots run deep into the earth.

Some break the surface, crawling along the grass.

Moss and lichen spread over my creeping roots.

My trunk is short, bending to the sky.

With rough, crevassed bark worn from the years.

The home of many, big and small.

The branches twist and turn around each other,

Spreading in all directions, almost kissing the ground.

Trying to reach the sun, my dark green leaves sway in the warm summer breeze,

Turning gold and chocolate in Autumn.

The children play between the branches as the birds sing.

At night, the animals come to play: the possums, the roo and the moths,

Cooling the air under me in the summer heat.

My branches bare to the chill of the frozen winter.

My memories, old and full, can remember the years, long and short.

The ones of happiness and joy, to the tiring and aggressive.

Things have always been the same, just repeating from before I was here.

It always turns out right in the end.