An old log lies upon the side
of a hill, twisted once a proud tree.
Moss grows along its dank and rotting
channels which time has turned.
Shattered bark points to and fro
like the ravaged metal of war.
An image of death, this once-sturdy tree,
now waiting for inevitable decay;
it reminds me of a cannon barrel
from the Armada which has succumbed to
the battle of age and displacement,
its last shots fired long ago.
Rest peacefully, old tree,
refurbish the soil, be as one
with the earth, let weather toil.