by Liam

Could that ancient oak but speak,

A voice whispered hymn through mist and smoke,

Sharing the lore, the woes, the fight,

Of times when swords they smote by night.

Shields clashed loud, men screamed their pain,

Lances cracked on the battlefields plain.

But seasons turned, as seasons must,

Bones grew quiet beneath the dust.

The swords grew dull, the fires died,

And peace crept in where war had cried.

Now, my branches wide stretched with grace,

A haven for birds, create timeless space.

Yet deep within my ancient rings,

Remain echoes still of warrior kings.

Of whispered oaths, of valor’s mark,

Of life and death in the forest dark.

Had I but a voice, I’d sing it true,

To the tales of men and what they knew.

But I am oak, rooted and wise,

My stories held firm in the earth and skies.

So here I stand, through the years unbroke,

The silent sage—the ancient oak.

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